Anatomy of a Single Girl (4 page)

I crack up laughing. Not because it’s funny. I’m just so pleased to see someone cute being kind as well. Cuteness and kindness are often inversely proportional in people. Then I tell him, “I overheard what you said, by the way. I’m sorry about your friend. But if it’s just a second-degree burn, he’ll blister but might not scar.”

“Yeah, it didn’t look that serious.” He starts in on his second bagel slice. “Normally I’d have just hauled him to Student Health, but it’s closed on the weekends until fall.”

At that, my ears perk up even more. “Oh, you go to college around here?”

He nods. “Ford.”

“Henry Ford Institute of Technology?” I beam. “When I was in high school, they let me audit a human anatomy
class, and I was going to apply there, too. But then I decided I should try out a different city since I’d lived here my whole life.”

“I hear that. Georgia Tech would’ve been my first choice if my family weren’t in Atlanta.”

He polishes off the rest of the bagel, and I’m afraid he’s going to return to Bruce now. Instead he smacks his lips and asks, “So, what school
did
you go to?”

Within five minutes he has abandoned his chair for the one across from me at my table. I discover that he’s nineteen, is going to be a junior, has declared a physics major, and rooms with Bruce in their fraternity house—Beta Zeta Phi. Mostly, though, we discuss his summer work as a research apprentice helping to devise new ways to isolate neutrons. Yeah. Cuteness and intelligence don’t frequently coexist, either, so he’s an exception to that, too. Only a half hour elapses from the time we first speak to when Bruce texts him that he’s being wheeled out, but there’s no question that I’m drawn to this guy for a lot more than his looks.

“I guess I should bring my car around,” he tells me after messaging back Bruce. “Sorry for talking shop so much. My Beta brothers would’ve told me to shut up by now.”

“Are you kidding? I’m just jealous you get to do actual science for your job when my work here’s all secretarial. I want to know more.”

“Yeah?” He grins. “That could be arranged.… We should swap numbers and stuff.”

“Yeah, sure.” I try not to say it too eagerly, though I’m euphoric that he took the bait.

We bump phones over the table, and it’s only after they
sync that I realize we’ve never actually introduced ourselves.

“So, you’re Dominique Lilith Baylor?” he reads from his display. “Cool name.”

“Thanks, but everyone calls me Dom. It was after my grandpa Dominic. And ‘Lilith,’ my parents chose because in mythology she was, like, this infamous feminist redhead—”

“Oh, yeah. Lilith was Adam’s wife before Eve, but she left the Garden of Eden because she refused to be subservient to Adam.” I must appear impressed, because he shrugs and goes on, “I took religion last year for a distribution requirement.”

Fighting my compulsion to kiss him for sounding so erudite, I look down at my own cell. “And you’re … Guy Davies?”

“Uh-huh. There’s no significance behind ‘Guy,’ though. My mom and dad just weren’t very imaginative.”

I smile and reach out my hand to him. “Well,
I
like it. Nice to meet you, Guy.”

He squeezes my hand as we shake, unleashing a swarm of butterflies beating against my abdomen. I haven’t had that in so long, and I love how transcendent it feels—like I’m weightless, or free-falling through space. It lasts for only a second, though, before the past flashes before my eyes and I fill with dread.

Now I’ll be spending the next who-knows-how-many days waiting for Guy to call/text/IM/Facebook/e-mail me. Then,
if
he ever does, I’ll devote who-knows-how-many hours to reading into every word and deliberating about how to respond so I come off as available but not clingy. We
may call/text/IM/Facebook/e-mail back and forth for who-knows-how-much longer until we start hanging out,
if
we ever do. Meanwhile I’ll keep scrutinizing his behavior for signs as to whether he wants me romantically or as just a friend, and my mood will yo-yo accordingly until he finally makes a move,
if
he ever does.

I used to think all that game playing was par for the course and even kind of exciting. It just felt logical to pursue a boy the same way I applied to college—by expending exorbitant time and energy showing what a great catch I am and what a perfect match we’d be, so that after a lengthy waiting period I might get accepted. But now the idea of reliving any version of that charade seems like hell. It’s also pointless, considering that the connection between Guy and me is undeniable. That is, I
think
it is. I doubt he would’ve started talking to me, moved seats, and asked for my contact information if he weren’t at least
interested
in being interested in me.…

But maybe he was just being polite.

Maybe he already has a girlfriend.

Why
wouldn’t
someone like him have a girlfriend?

But, then, why is he squeezing my hand?

He could just have a firm grip—

I’m sick of always second-guessing!

“Would you like to do something tonight?” I blurt as Guy lets go of me.

His eyebrows jump in surprise. Did I really ask out a hottie I hardly know? I’m floored that it was so easy. But I feel like something just snapped, unshackling this fearless Amy-like side of myself I never thought existed. It’s freeing.
It’s exhilarating … until my more dominant, non-Amy side starts bracing for him to say no. I can practically already hear Guy hemming and hawing about being too busy with work or that he’s dating someone. It’ll be embarrassing, of course, but then I’ll learn his intentions right off the bat, and I can go on with my life as if I never saw him.

Turns out I dredged up all that drama in my head for nothing, because he answers, “Yeah! Totally! I was actually gonna walk you out and suggest meeting up later after we both get some rest, but you beat me to the punch.”

“Oh.” The butterflies return in droves.

Guy grins again. “I guess great minds think alike.”

Okay. I am fully and completely aware that anything can happen, and that I’m getting years ahead of myself, and that what I’m about to say makes me sound like Brie … but there’s no harm in acknowledging that “Dr. Dominique Davies” has a very nice ring to it.

5

A
fter going home and Googling Guy’s name to death, I’m physically aching to call Amy and fill her in on my morning. But since it’s her last full day with Joel, I decide not to disrupt them, and I go straight to bed. I’m so jumpy, though, that I keep waking up, logging zero hours of deep sleep when my alarm clock blares that afternoon.

Now running on pure adrenaline, I blaze through my daily Pilates routine before reveling in a steaming hot shower. Standing there, I try relaxing my jitters by pretending that I’m under a tropical waterfall … with Guy. While lathering up, I envision that his hands instead of mine are
caressing every part of my body. Meanwhile, Guy’s gushing about how he has waited his whole life for this, and soon I’m following him behind the waterfall to a covert rock cavern, where he has his way with me.

Following ten hot rollers, two Bioré strips, five outfit changes, and countless more pornographic fantasies starring Guy and me, I saunter into the living room at half past six.

“May I borrow the car?” I ask Dad, who’s sprawled out on the couch watching the Marlins game. “I hate biking in skirts.”

“You’re missing dinner
again
?” He slams down his iced tea for dramatic effect and frowns disappointedly. “You know, between seeing Amy, babysitting, and candy striping, you’ve barely been home since you’ve
come
home.”

“ ‘Candy striper’ is hopelessly antiquated, Dad. The proper term is ‘patient care intern.’ ”

“Well,
excuuuuuse
me,” he kids. “I had no idea higher education made you so politically correct.”

“Oh, Dommie, you look lovely,” Mom remarks primly from the kitchen. “Are you and Amy going out somewhere?”

“She’s visiting her boyfriend, remember?”

“Oh, right.” Mom shakes her head in sorrow, and I know by heart the mini-lecture she’s about to deliver, having been the original inspiration for it. “I hope that girl’s not getting too serious with him. College is the time to meet lots of boys. I’ll never understand why children are in such a rush to act like adults.”

If I thought it’d make a difference, I’d talk back, because Amy has never let her relationship stop her from meeting
guys. And I truly believe being young isn’t an issue as long as you’re with the right person and dedicated to each other. Plus, considering we can now vote, serve on a jury, die for our country, and even get married, we technically
are
adults.

“So, if Amy’s down for the count,” Dad says as I begin setting the table for them, “where are you heading?”

“Big Fish.”

“Why do you want to eat alone?”

“I won’t be eating alone.”

I think I hear the sound barrier break as my parents whip their heads around to trade puzzled expressions with each other.

“Then with
whom
will you be eating?” Mom inquires. “Just someone I met.”

“Aaaand?”
they bleat.

“A third-year at Ford.”

I bite my tongue to keep from laughing, and Dad sighs impatiently. “Feel free to relieve our suspense at any time. Does this mystery student have a name? A gender?”

“Yes. Both, in fact.”

Dad grunts.

“Is this a
date
?” Mom asks with bated breath.

I lay out the last of the silverware.
“Maaaaybe.”

They break out into a condescending duet of
“Awws,”
and Mom says, “See? This is precisely what Amy should be doing—getting to know different people for a change. Good for you!”

“Whatever,” I grumble before finally spilling the Guy details. Mom is impressed because his major involves multivariable calculus, which is far more complex than anything
she teaches in high school. But Dad, being Dad, wastes no time sizing Guy up with his signature brand of tact.

“He
isolates neutrons
? What the hell good does that do?”

“It’s very sophisticated subatomic scholarship. Online I found out that Guy even won the Ford award for Excellence in Science last year. And Beta Zeta Phi has the highest average GPA of all the fraternities there.”

“Big stinkin’ whoop. For all we know, this
Guy
guy could be some crazy con man who prowls hospital cafeterias looking for unsuspecting candy stripers. Excuse me,
patient care interns
.”

“Ha.
So
clever. And you’ll be happy to hear that I also checked him out in the metro database, and he has no criminal record, not even a traffic ticket.”

“That’s assuming he gave you his real name,” Dad sneers. “And I suggest you go dutch tonight. If this
Guy
guy pays, he might feel entitled to pay
back
, if ya know what I mean.”

“Daddy! Ew! Don’t gross me out!” I make a beeline for the front door as he busts up laughing.

“Have a nice time,” Mom calls after me.

“I will,” I say, grabbing the keys to our station wagon from the foyer table.

Then Dad asks, “Are you coming fishing tomorrow? We’d like to spend more than three minutes with our daughter so we can really talk.”

“Sure. Bye. Love you.” I undo the top latch and turn the doorknob.

“We love you, too,” they say in unison.

“And, Dom?” Dad adds when I’m halfway out of our apartment.

I spin around and shout back, “Yes?”

“We told you so.”

I squint at them, bewildered. “Told me
what
?”

They remain silent, though the solemnity overtaking their faces is answer enough.

As much as I’ve been better about staying positive about everything, a part of me still doubted this day would come—not going on a date, but finding someone new whom I’d
like
to date. I know that sounds stupidly pessimistic, especially coming from a teen, though breakups are another area where youth is irrelevant. Whatever age you are when you’re first burned is old enough to lose hope that you’ll ever get excited about anybody else. My parents promised me I was wrong. So, yeah, they told me so.

My heart starts thumping with nerves as I ride the elevator down to the garage, and when I pull into Big Fish ten minutes later, my belly’s doing full-on backflips. There’s still no sign of Guy’s red Accord convertible, which I caught a glimpse of this morning while we were saying goodbye in the hospital parking lot. For a moment I deliberate whether to hide out in the station wagon until I can spy him going inside first. I don’t want to seem overanxious or desperate by showing up early. Then I remember that that’s exactly the kind of meaningless overanalyzing that has never gotten me anywhere before. So I march through the front entrance, sit tall on a bench, and occupy myself by tooling around on my phone.

I’m checking grades again, even though I doubt the registrar’s office would’ve released them over a holiday weekend—it didn’t—when Guy strides in at seven on the dot. He’s even cuter now that he’s clean-shaven. In physics two years ago, we learned how gravity is the natural force of
attraction between any two bodies. If I didn’t know any better, I’d guess Guy’s gravitational pull was reeling me in, from the way I leap to my feet and glide toward him at breakneck speed.

“Hey!” he exclaims upon seeing me. Then he puts his hand on my shoulder and gently squeezes it for a second. I think I may melt. “You look great, Dom!”

“Thanks,” I reply breathily. I realize height shouldn’t be important, but it’s sexy that he’s so much bigger than me. Even in my three-inch platform flip-flops, I only clear his collar. “So how’s Bruce holding up?”

“I think his ego’s hurting the worst. There’re three other Betas living in the house this summer, and we’re all teasing him mercilessly. How are
you
?”

“Out of it. That overnight shift threw off my whole internal clock, and I haven’t eaten since I saw you.”