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Over two decades from now, during an evening when it’s just them in bed together, when their daughter is at a sleepover and there are no clients who need wishes fulfilled, she’ll remember this as their first date.
And he’ll lift his head from his pillow, look at her with very confused green eyes, and ask, “Eva, what the hell are you talking about?”
“Our first date,” she’ll say, nostalgic. Maybe it’ll be the wine they had with dinner, or that the lovemaking was even better than usual, but for whatever reason, thinking of when they were young and almost but not quite in love will make her nostalgic. “It was after we’d finished our first year of Sigmund training. We went to Westway for lunch. Don’t you remember?”
“Yeah, I remember,” he’ll say, “but that wasn’t our first date.”
And then she will lift her head from her pillow and ask incredulously, “Excuse me? We agreed to go there beforehand—”
“After you said we weren’t gonna celebrate by getting drunk.”
“It was just the two of us, and we split the bill. How the cucumber is that not a date?”
“I didn’t say it wasn’t a date,” he’ll point out. “I said it wasn’t our first.”
“Oh, really now?” She’ll huff out a breath, somewhere between annoyed and amused. “What was it, then?”
“My college dorm, sophomore year,” he’ll say at once. “You smiled at me while we ate pizza and ice cream and I knew you’d love me one day.”
“That wasn’t a date,” she’ll protest. “Need I remind you that I had an actual date with my boyfriend that night?”
“And who was the guy you spent the rest of the evening with after your boyfriend dumped you, hmm?”
“Neil,” she’ll say, in that exasperated way of hers. “That was me wanting a friend to cheer me up. It wasn’t our first date.”
“We had dinner and witty banter and I told you goodnight before you left. That’s totally a date.” He’ll grin cheekily, leaning closer to her. “Or does it not count ’cause we didn’t get naked?”
And for a few moments, the conversation will be put on hold as they get a little frisky. He’ll kiss her, again and again and again, until she almost forgets what they were talking about, until she almost decides to let go of the past and enjoy the rekindled heat of the present.
Almost, but not entirely.
“It still wasn’t a date,” she’ll say breathlessly, pulling him down so they’re lying beside each other again.
“What about after Rebecca Dorset?” he’ll suggest. “I took you to your apartment, gave you a hug.”
“We’d just failed a patient for the first time. I was upset. You did the only decent thing to do, for once.”
“I made you chamomile tea and sat on the couch with you.”
“Again, it was the only decent thing to do.”
“I told you the boss would be a moron to fire us over one lousy case.”
“It still wasn’t a date,” she’ll repeat, but she’ll be smiling affectionately, all annoyance abandoned.
“Sure it wasn’t.” And he’ll run his fingers through her ebony hair (which will be flecked with gray—her snowflakes, he’ll insist on calling them) and remember.
“Okay,” he’ll say after a moment of silence, “I’ve got two words for ya—Johnny Wyles. We went stargazing.”
She’ll laugh. “Now you’re stretching. That wasn’t a date; that was work.”
“We went stargazing and I told you about my grandpa. You were gorgeous.”
“We were in Johnny’s memories.”
“And you were gorgeous.”
She’ll just shake her head in amusement. “How did you get to be such a sap?”
“I love you,” he’ll say, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
“We’re married with a daughter and a cat. You better love me.”
He’ll chuckle at that, and she’ll kiss him. She’ll taste so good that he’ll wonder how he ever lived without her.
“Seriously, Neil,” she’ll say afterward, “you could stand to remember stuff we did that didn’t involve work or me being a mess. Like Westway.”
“There wasn’t any alcohol.”
She’ll choose to ignore that. “We weren’t working. No one else was with us. Neither of us were emotional wrecks.”
“You paid for lunch,” he’ll recall suddenly.
“And you paid for dessert. The food was delicious, the waiter was nice. It was a good date.”
“It was,” he’ll say, almost to himself, half-distracted by memories of her hair in the midday sun shining from the windows of the family-owned diner. He’ll remember seeing brownie crumbs on her face and wondering how she’d react if he went over to her and brushed them away with his thumb.
“Glad you agree,” she’ll say, then crawl up on him. And she’ll kiss him, again and again and again, until he forgets every date they did or didn’t or will or won’t have. He’ll forget everything that isn’t hot and heavy, isn’t her hands and her mouth, isn’t pulling him back in for another round during that evening when the only thing they need to focus on is each other.
Right now, however, Neil Watts is twenty-three and decidedly not a clairvoyant. Right now, the only future he sees is chocolatey and decadent and will cost him a total of eleven dollars and eight cents. And right now, with his pretty best friend who wants to celebrate finishing their first year of Sigmund Corp. training with just him, without the other trainees around—even if she refuses to include alcohol in their celebration—it’s enough.