A few seconds later she replies, saying both her and her hubby like outfit number two better. Good. I won’t have to change again. With much care, I loosen the curls and create a new hole in the Ozone with hairspray, touch up my makeup, and accessorize with a red-jeweled necklace, matching earrings, and a black bracelet. I sit on the closed toilet to put on a pair of tall black heels, tastefully spotted with gold and scarlet gems. Yes, they are Gryffindor shoes, and yes, I fucking love them.

I put them on, spray myself with perfume, and look in the mirror.

“You are awesome,” I tell myself. “The shit, actually. If Ben doesn’t like you, then fuck him. His loss.” I nod at myself, trying to believe the pep talk. Can I have a glass of wine? Just half a glass?

I’m so nervous.

I tighten my bra straps and reach inside my shirt to give my breasts a boost. I have on a push-up bra and might have done a super-light version of Cosplay cleavage, which entails using contouring to make my breasts look fuller and rounder … not that they need much help though.

I leave the bathroom and straighten my bedspread. Ya know, just in case we come back here and things get physical. When was the last time I washed my sheets? Last week? Two weeks ago? Maybe longer since I can’t even fucking remember.

I cringe and go crazy with the Febreze. I shove my dirty laundry into the closet, force the doors closed, and go into the living room. I have about ten minutes before Ben gets here to pick me up. We’re going to Osteria Rossa, a fancy Italian restaurant in Grand Rapids. I’d yet to go there, and am really looking forward to yummy food.

I sit on the couch, getting the evil eye from Ser Pounce because I pushed him off my lap, not wanting to get covered in cat fur, and flip through channels. I end up watching the tail end of an episode of Naked and Afraid until the doorbell rings. I shoot up, count to ten, run my hands over my top, and go to the door.

“Wow,” Ben blurts when I open the door. His dark eyes widen and he slowly looks me up and down, clearly not caring that he’s obviously checking me out. “You look amazing.”

“Thanks,” I say, trying to brush off the compliment and not smile like a goon. “You don’t look so bad yourself.” He’s wearing dark pants and a black button-up shirt. He’s effortlessly put together. I take a step to the side. “Come in.”

We move into the living room and he turns, eyes fucking me all over again. He closes his eyes in a long blink and bites his bottom lip. The he shakes himself and smiles.

“Hungry?”

“I am,” I say. “You?”

“I’m always hungry.” He sees Ser Pounce and reaches out to pet him. The fat cat hisses and turns his nose.

“He’s an asshole, don’t take it personally,” I say. “I wanted a dog, but my old apartment didn’t allow dogs. I think Ser Pounce knows that he was my second choice and resents life because of it.”

Ben laughs, and I’m relieved. Not everyone understands my weird sense of serious-sounding sarcasm. “We should probably take off. Ready?”

“I am,” I repeat and grab my purse. Ben waits for me as I lock the front door, then opens the passenger side door of his Audi for me. I get in, breathing in the scent of new leather and paint. I turn and see a sheet draped over the backseat, protecting the leather from all the art supplies he has thrown in the back. Yes, definitely a chaotic mess creative type. We make small talk, mostly Ben telling me how Mindy still can’t figure out how to use the website.

He opens the door and offers me his hand when we get to the restaurant. I carefully step onto the curb, clutching my purse in the other hand. Ben locks the car and pockets his keys.

And he doesn’t let go of my hand.

We have reservations, and only wait a couple of minutes before the hostess leads us to a table in the back of the restaurant. The lighting is low and it’s supa fancy. I feel nervous again.

You’re the shit.

Yes. I am. We sit opposite each other. Ben orders a bottle of red wine—thank God—and the waiter brings us bread to nibble on as we look over the menu.

“You said you haven’t lived here long,” Ben starts as he takes a drink of wine.

“No, I got a new job and moved from Mistwood about seven months ago.”

“Mistwood?”

“It’s a small-ish town near Lake Michigan.”

He nods. “Do you like it here?”

I shrug. “It’s been okay so far. It’s kind of fun being somewhere new, and the job is pretty easy.”

“I’d think so,” he comments. “What’s someone who graduated from MIT doing working in customer service?”

“Oh,” I say and put another piece of bread on my plate. “I don’t actually do customer service. I was filling in for someone else at the company I work for.”

“What do you actually do, then?”

“Code websites. Easy-peasy stuff.” I wave my hand in the air. “I used to be a software programmer before this. Loved the job, but the place I worked didn’t offer much room for growth. Or raises,” I add with a wry smile. “Who knows where I’ll be in a year or two.”

Ben is smiling. “You’ve got the wanderlust bug.”

“I do,” I agree. “I like traveling and going new places.”

“So do I.” He dips his bread in oil and takes a bite.

I take another drink of wine. “Have you always been here?”

“I grew up in Detroit,” he says. “My father was in the military so we moved around a lot until I was a teen, and he was done with the army for good.”

“That must have been hard,” I reply, knowing how hard middle and high school was for me and I had the same friends throughout both.

“It wasn’t so bad.” He shrugs. “When you’re constantly going somewhere new it forces you to not be shy. I think it pushed me to be an artist too.”

“Really? How so?”

“I liked sports, but you can’t join teams mid season,” he starts to explain. “Which makes it harder to make friends. But you can always join art clubs no matter what point it is in the school year.”

“I wouldn’t have taken you for an art club type,” I admit. “You don’t look the type.”

“You said it: looks can be deceiving.” He lets out a breath. “I always liked art, liked being able to get lost in something.”

That’s how I feel about Cosplay and fantasy. I feel another connection to Ben. “And you’re good at it, right?”

He smiles. “That too. I really don’t think anyone can be bad at art. It’s expressing something. If you can’t paint landscapes, sculpt. There’s always another way to get what you feel on the inside onto something on the outside.” He shakes his head. “It wasn’t always easy moving around, and art gave me that outlet.”

I like seeing this deeper side to him. “That makes sense.”

“I did eventually get used to moving, and used to making new friends. And that’s how my parents met,” he goes on. “My dad was stationed in Japan for a while. Brought my mom back with him.” He laughs softly. “I think my grandparents are still pissed about it.”

“Have you ever gone there to visit them?”

He moves his head up and down as he finishes chewing. “A few times. I haven’t been there in years though, and I’m wanting to go back.”

“I’ve never been there,” I say. “I’d love to go. So much.”

“It’s beautiful. My grandparents are a bit old school too, so it’s almost like going back in time. And Tokyo is just … so much. There are so many people and there’s always something going on. It’s nonstop, but it’s awesome.” His eyes grow big as he talks, and the passion and excitement takes over his face. “It’s easy to get that lost in the crowd feeling when thousands of people pass you buy unnoticed, but it has an energy about it that’s just contagious.”

“Why haven’t you gone in a few years?” I ask and hope it’s not prying.

“I opened the gallery here a few years ago,” he says. “And it’s kept me a lot busier than I expected. But I love it too.”

I don’t really know what being an artist entails, though I imagine it’s pretty fucking awesome, like getting paid to get up and do your hobby. Making websites isn’t art, but it’s creating something, and seeing something come from nothing.