Ryan Lewis Merritt

"First Date"

Excerpted from:

NIGHT INTO DAY

a novel by Ryan Lewis Merritt

Martha’s Country Bakery was crowded as Dean walked in – families, couples, groups of shoppers dragging oversized bags in from Austin Street. It was about a ten-minute wait for a table, and Dean kept looking behind him toward the door as he edged up in line, expecting Melissa to walk in, but by the time he was seated she still hadn’t shown.

Their table was against the long wall that ran along the west side of the café, a forty-foot leather banquette extending all the way across to the kitchen in the back. Dean sat and watched the flow of people across the room, occasionally shifting his eyes over toward the door.

Finally, he saw her, breaking off from the crowd by the door. A waitress approached her, and as Melissa said something to her, her eyes flicked right and she saw Dean, gesturing to him. She left the waitress and began walking toward him, passing under the lights so that, for a second, he saw only her tall, dark silhouette framed against the fading light from outside. But he could feel her eyes on him, the directness of her stare, and he leaned back slightly in his seat. She passed back into the light and he saw that she was, in fact, looking down. She was smiling.

“Sorry I’m late,” she said, lowering herself into the seat across the table.

“It’s okay.”

“Were you waiting long?”

“Not really.”

She looked across at him and smiled again, her eyes falling to his chest. He watched as she struggled to take off her coat, her arms pinned behind her back for a moment in a way that happened to draw attention to her breasts. He rose to help her, trying to squeeze around the small table, but she finally broke free of the coat and pulled it over the back of the chair. He sat back down. She looked down at her shirt, a tight-fitting black-and-white striped crewneck, sleeves pushed to her elbows.

“Sorry, I didn’t really know what to wear,” she said. “I haven’t really been on a date in a while.”

She looked up at him, and he could tell that she was watching him for his reaction. He knew that he should say something – contradict her, raise some sort of objection – but he just sat there, expressionless, unable to speak. She raised her eyebrows.

“Kidding,” she said with a smile.

A waitress appeared. Dean nodded at Melissa, and she ordered decaf coffee and brownie a la mode without the ice cream. Dean ordered skim milk and a slice of Black Forest cake. He watched the waitress walk away. He could feel the press of Melissa’s stare.

“Do you not like ice cream?” he asked, looking past her toward the front counter.

“I’m lactose intolerant.”

“What does that mean if you eat ice cream?”

“I get severe cramps and fart a lot.”

“Oh,” Dean said. After a moment, he smiled and looked down.

“Is that funny?” Melissa asked.

Dean shook his head.

“Then why’d you smile?” she asked.

“No, it’s just…you’re very direct.”

“What other way is there to be?”

“I don’t know. I just…don’t experience that a lot.”

“Do you go out on a lot of dates?”

Dean looked up at her, shook his head.

“Why not?” she asked.

Dean looked away again. Melissa kept staring at him.

“I don’t know,” he said.

“Why not. You’re good looking.”

Dean looked down at the table. Melissa was playing with a sugar packet, squeezing it between her fingers, turning it end over end in her hands.

“Thanks.”

“You’re really good looking.”

“Thank you,” he said quietly.

“Why are you acting like you don’t hear that a lot.”

He looked up, then shifted his eyes away toward the door.

“From who, my mom?” he asked with a smile.

“What about your girlfriend?”

The waitress appeared with their drinks. Melissa watched Dean as he struggled with the wrapper on his straw.

“You seem nervous,” she said.

“I’m not.”

He continued to twist at the paper.

“Are you sure?” she asked.

“Yeah. I don’t…really get nervous.”

“No?”

He shook his head.

“So what is it, then?” she asked.

“What is what.”

“What’s…on…your…mind.”

He hesitated. Stuck the straw in the milk.

“A lot of things, I guess,” he said.

They fell into a silence, and the noise of the room – the blur of overlapping conversations, the familiar music of forks and spoons tapping off plates, a man’s strange, cackling laugh rising above it all – all of it seemed to swell in volume as they sat there. Dean took a long sip of his milk, leaned back, and sighed.

“Why don’t we try this,” Melissa said, leaning forward onto the table.

Dean kept his eyes on the table.

“Why don’t we pretend that we’re not here because someone else thought we should be. Why don’t we try pretending that we’re here because we want to be.”

He looked up at her, watching her. She stared calmly.

“What would you say to me, if that was the case?” she asked. She looked down as she tipped the battered sugar packet into her coffee, picked up her spoon and stirred. She seemed to be giving him time to think.

“I don’t know,” he said.

“Say we’re here on a date. We just met last week.” She looked up at him again. “At the library.” She smiled. “We both wanted the same book…but there was only one copy. We argued back and forth a little bit over who should take it. And finally, I said, fine, you can have it, on one condition. You meet me at Martha’s on Christmas Day at four o’clock, and you have to have read the book, and you have to tell me all about it.”

Dean smiled.

“And say that…the subject of the book was somebody named Dean Leonard,” she went on, watching him closely. “And the story was about…what.” She stared into his eyes. “It was about the last twelve months of his life before Christmas Day.” She took a sip of her coffee, set it down, and nodded at him.

The waitress came back with their desserts, switching their orders up. When she left, Dean picked up the brownie and set it down in front of Melissa. She did the same with his cake without taking her eyes off of him. She picked up her fork, waiting. Staring.

“Well?” she asked.

“I would say…that he’s…” He looked away, then back to her. “Dean,” he said, as if to clarify. She laughed lightly. “He’s…”

“Happy?” she asked.

He shook his head.

“Sad?”

Dean nodded.

“Maddeningly quiet?”

He smiled.

“Charming but withdrawn?” she said. “Handsome, tall, shy…”

Dean shook his head.

“Heartbroken?”

He froze, his smile disappearing. He looked down at his cake, pushing his fork into it.

“And there’s the story,” she said. “The great untold story.”

She watched him as he picked at the cake, pushing the icing to the edge of the plate.

“You’re gonna have to tell somebody eventually, right?” she asked.

“I don’t know.”

“You gotta get it outside, man. It’s gonna eat you up.”

He shrugged.

“I’ll tell you what. This is probably going to tip the scales which are already totally unbalanced in my favor in terms of sharing – me – and not sharing – you.” She pushed her fork into her brownie. “But I’m going to tell you the story of my marriage.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I don’t necessarily want to, but it’s kind of, like, my only recourse right now, you know?”

“So don’t.”

“I’m gonna have to,” she said. “I’m the only one talking here.”

“I’ll tell you, I’ll tell you. It’s just…”

She waited.

“What,” she said softly.

“I was kind of hoping to just not think about it…maybe just for today.”

“Okay,” she said, nodding. “Okay.”

He looked into her eyes and saw that she understood. They ate their desserts in silence as the noise swirled around them, tables were cleared and new people were seated, the window in front growing darker and darker and the holiday lights and streetlamps starting to fade up down Austin Street.