Chapter Three; CP on a Harley (That would be “Charming Prince”)

Saturday finally arrives and it is a sparkling summer night as I drive across town, sunroof open, to meet Nick for our second date.

He’d actually texted me several times over the past few days and he was witty and sweet, at one point sending me a silly camera phone pic of our mutual friend, Christiana, in an ad on the back of a bus (she does some local modeling). I reply saying my favorite is when I see her mug in that same ad campaign on bus stop benches. Because then I get to call her and announce, “Hey woman, I just saw a bum sitting on your face!”

Nick tells me I am hysterical.

Yeah, well. I try.

On the way there, I admit to myself how excited I am to see him again, which is just shocking for me. Normally at this stage in the dating game, my logical and cautious hat is securely fastened on my bleached head. This pessimistic self-protection approach allows me to secretly watch for signs that the dude I am dating may be a psycho/alcoholic/maniac. Well? You never know. But that hat must be in the mental laundry basket because I am ridiculously giddy about this date with Nick, having thrown all rational thought out my open sunroof in anticipation of tonight.

Which, when it comes to matters of the heart, isn’t that a good thing?

I meander my way down the street to the bar I had suggested we sync up at for our second date, and turn my car around a corner and into the parking lot.

And there he is.

Rebel without a cause, leather jacket clad, leaning casually against his Harley and absent mindedly texting on his phone.

Looking?

Hotter.

Than.

Hell.

Am I in a movie? I mean seriously.

Someone pinch me. Wait. Don’t. If this is a dream, I’d like to stay in this slumber with the sexy swaggering star of the show, thank you very much.

Check that. Make that a coma.

(Yeah, he looks that good.)

“Hey you!” I announce, pseudo confidence intact, as I step out of my car, wearing the new blue summer dress I bought specifically for this date. (When the a guy warrants the purchase of a new outfit? Be quiet. Guilty as charged.)

“Hey you back, so good to see you again, you look amazing,” he beams. There it was. There was that incredible smile once more.

I feel like replying, “Um, have you looked in a mirror lately, James Dean?”

This time, I have two hours to spare for this second date with Nick in my eternally chaotic life. Circumstances, not plotting, contribute to this brief window of time, and one minute in I am already wishing it were longer.

Elbows on the table in that smokin’ hot leather jacket, he leans in and his eyes sparkle as we exchange anecdotal stories about our lives in the “getting to know you” part of dating. Once again, we seem to form an effortless connection as we chat. His life, I think, is far more interesting than mine. A million questions swirl around in my head but I resist the urge to embark on a full scale interview, especially about the firefighter thing. I just assume everyone new he meets must interrogate him about that, it is intriguing.

Therefore, I refrain from asking things like, “Do you really slide down a pole?” and “How many babies have you saved from a fiery death?”

Because of course, I can see it now. Nick charging out of a burning house, infant in one hand, old woman clinging to his neck, and an unconscious puppy cradled under one arm.

Just call me Louis Lane, because yep. I am on a date with Superman.

As we talk, I shake the hero fantasies out of my blonde brain and become increasingly intrigued by the places he’s been, the decisions he’s made, and the things he’s seen. And I suddenly feel very dull next to him.

His life is one big adventure. Mine?

Pretty standard.

He’s never been married and he has no children. And I am glad. You see, I’ve been resistant about dating men whose lives have paralleled mine on the family/divorce front. I’ve already put my own children through a divorce, and as far as I can tell, the Brady Bunch is fictional. Blending families is difficult, and I haven’t been brave enough yet to entertain the thought of potentially putting my daughters through that.

So I gravitate toward men without children. Therefore, I’m thrilled Nick’s life story aligns with my ideal.

Nick does ask about my divorce, everyone does. And I try to stay classy and brief in my description, which is always challenging.

Because divorce is horrible. It just is. It’s hard to talk about it without sounding bitter and jaded and pissed off. It’s like discussing a murder. How are you supposed to talk about a homicide with a smile on your face?

I mean, really.

“And the victim suffered but not tremendously. But a lot of time has passed and the survivors are just peachy. Isn’t it glorious?”

Uh. Yeah.

But I think I do a good job as my answers seem to satisfy his curiosity and we shift off the subject of my marital failure.

I order a mojito so he does too. He’s never had one. And I soon learn that this joint makes lethal ones. Who is bartending? Obviously a raging alcoholic who is out to make the rest of world one too.

Because good gawd, one mojito later I promptly switch to water as I know I am feeling faaaaaaaaaaaaaar too relaxed for a second date. It has to be the alcohol.

How can I feel this comfortable around someone I just met?

Who knows, but I do.

His voice is deep and so calming that just listening to him talk lulls me into serenity like the drum of a summer rain. His laughter is honest and his smile. Oh, that smile. I’ve seen Nick now for all of three hours out of the 37 years I’ve been on this planet, but he miraculously inflicts a feeling of comfort that is usually only reserved for old friends who I’ve known since second grade, the ones who watched me pee my pants during show and tell and didn’t abandon me in my humiliation. Those kinds of friends. He’s simultaneously familiar and foreign.

And I don’t know why. All I know is it feels really, really.

Good.

When time does that warping thing once more and two hours mysteriously fade, we say our goodbyes in a parking lot once again. I show him my new car with my keyless entry; I call it my space ship. It’s so weird. You don’t need a key. You just push a button and viola! We test it out, how far back can this sensor I now carry instead of keys go before the car won’t open, anyway? He takes my purse and holds it back.

One foot, two feet. Oh, about two feet.

We both laugh. Awkwardly. Because you know what?

I think we both want to see the other one naked.

Oh not immediately. Get off my case, Mother Theresa.

He’s heading to meet some guys and I am heading home to entertain some girlfriends in my backyard over a fire pit.

We say goodbye again.

And as I drive away I crank up my “life is good” tunes of choice (anything and everything by Green Day)and smile my highlighted head off.

I am well aware that it too soon to say if this is a fairy tale or not.

But if it is, forget the white horse. My charming prince, just stormed into my life.

On a goddamned Harley.


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Thank you for reading, my Dating Land fans! I'll be right back here on Monday with Chapter Four; My Charming Prince comes back for S'more. (Please note, sometimes I get super ambitious and publish a day or two early. If you'd like to be notified immediately when I post something on my blog, you can sign up to be a Follower with Google Friend Connect in the toolbar on the right. Thanks for stopping and see you again on Monday! ~Audra )