Less Than Nothing by R.E. Blake Page A

boy?
    I text back: No. Having dinner.
    Her response comes in seconds. He didn’t seem to notice me. Maybe he’s gay?
    I decide to F with her. He wants to go shoe shopping later with me.
    I can practically hear her screaming at the phone in triumph. I knew it!
    I type back to her: Kidding.
    Her final message: Use condoms.
    When I emerge from the bathroom Derek’s torn a big hunk of the Italian peasant bread off and put it on my plate. I could kiss him. Not as in, stick my tongue down his throat or grope him or anything. More like, gratitude-for-his-consideration kissing. A vision of Melody waggling her tongue piercing at me floods my senses, and I have to bite my cheek to keep from laughing.
    I approach the table, and for a few seconds I consider the groping and kissing thing, and it doesn’t revolt me, as it usually does when I think about things like that. The surprises just keep coming. My legs feel weak again, and I’m grateful I can sit down before I fall against Derek.
    As if reading my mind, he strips his jacket off, revealing his tanned, muscular arms. The tattoos ripple across the skin. I shift on the vinyl seat and busy myself with the butter, although I’m afraid I’m being way too obvious with my gaze as I watch him in what I consider my stealth mode.
    He doesn’t seem to notice, and we dig into the bread. The waiter returns with a salad bowl the size of my head piled high with greens, the entire thing swimming in an herbal dressing that smells like heaven.
    Over the salad, I launch my information-gathering offensive, thinking of Melody as I do. “So, Seattle, huh?” I lead with.
    He nods, chewing.
    “How long have you been in the Bay Area?”
    “Three months.”
    “Were you on the street in Seattle, too?”
    Another nod, matter of fact. “Yeah. Since I was fifteen.”
    Perfect lead-in to my next question: “How old are you now?”
    He pauses, calculates, and then smiles. “Eighteen.” A long pause. “Today’s my birthday.”
    My mouth drops open like a largemouth bass, and I try to decide if he’s kidding. His eyes are as free of guile as a newborn’s. I raise my soda. “Congratulations, and happy birthday.”
    He clicks his plastic cup against mine. “It’s been my favorite one, so far.” His eyes lock on mine. “A really good day.”
    Words have suddenly fled my brain. I feel like I’m falling from a great height, dropping into his gaze, swimming in a bottle-green sea. He’s looking at me in a way I’ve never been looked at before. I’d remember if I had.
    Sure, I’ve had a few guys who totally wanted to get into my pants look at me with complete lust, usually accompanied by a beer smell. For some reason the last one, at a backyard keg party in my neighborhood six months ago, springs to mind. A senior named Brett had been putting the moves on me for weeks, and decided after some liquid courage that the words, “I’m so horny I’m gonna explode,” were what every girl wanted to hear. That didn’t end well, and when he didn’t take no graciously, I kneed him when he tried some bullshit power move that would have been more at home in a UFC ring than on a date. Obviously, none of those experiences compare to what I’m suddenly feeling now.
    I shake it off and break away. “Wow. Big occasion. I guess I’m buying,” I say, feeling like I should do something for Derek. He’s spent his birthday singing with me, and chosen to spend his special evening having dinner with me. And all the while I’ve been suspecting him of being a stalker or a menace. I feel about two inches tall.
    “I’m really glad it turned out this way. There’s nobody I’d rather be having dinner with.”
    I hear the words, but I’d already seen the truth of them in his eyes before he spoke. I shiver almost imperceptibly. This is not at all what I was expecting. I don’t know what to say, so I opt for a forkful of salad. Derek’s hand slides toward mine, and I feel a thrill of excitement in my