The People We Meet- Chapter 2 (James)

“Lou-Lou! Hustle up, Buttercup!” I snicker to myself because, a) Louise hates being called Lou-Lou, and b) she hates even more being rushed. She shouts at me to “slow my roll” (a phrase I tell her she is too old to use) and she saunters down the staircase, intentionally slow, step by excruciating step. She does it on purpose because, a) she knows I hate to be late more than anything, and b) I have made all the plans for the day and that irks her to no end. Mostly, I know she does it because she knows I’m watching her every move. My heart is beating so hard in my chest, I’m sure she could see it through my shirt if she dared take her eyes off the steps. She is wearing two inch wedges and a black dress that is so slim against her figure, nothing is left to the imagination. It hugs her in all the ways I want to. All the time. I’m hot for my girl. I can tell she is trying her best not to fall. She is quite possibly the clumsiest woman I have ever known and I can imagine her taking a tumble, head over heels to the bottom, baring her cute, Spanx covered ass. I can imagine it, because it wouldn’t be the first time I’d seen it. I smirk to myself and she shoots me a look as if she knows exactly what I am thinking. Shoot. She most likely does. Louise can read me like a book and knows me better than I know myself. She can anticipate my every reaction, every need, and as corny as it sounds, she can legit finish my sentences. As she stumbles on the last step, I stifle a laugh and think to myself, “Yup, that’s my girl.” I put my hands out to steady her; the laugh finding its way out despite my best efforts. She swats away my half-assed attempt at chivalry and says, “Jerk”, through beautiful, red stained lips and a smile.

Louise and I have known each other since our senior year of college at Rogers State University. She was going on a blind date with my roommate, Craig, and I was there to hide in the shadows in case he needed an out. I was his reverse wing man. Her girlfriend, a classmate of ours, described her as having a “great personality” and any warm-blooded college male knows exactly what that means. Craig was sure she’d show up and be so ugly he wouldn’t even be able to stomach beer and bar mix long enough to have an “emergency call”. But when she walked into Farley’s Pub that night, my heart stopped. I think every man’s heart in that bar stopped. If I were a betting man, I’d say I was clinically dead for thirty seconds. She was the most gorgeous creature I had ever seen. Her hair, dark and shiny like day old coffee, fell over her shoulders and caressed her sun-kissed skin. She had soft curves and a sweet, girl-next-door, face. Very little makeup, sensible shoes, and a sundress that clung to her just right. I watched Craig rise from his stool at the end of the bar and walk to her with a grin spreading from ear to ear. He put his hand on the small of her back and led her toward the mahogany bar, pulling her stool a few inches closer to his before offering her a seat. He turned back and looked at me over his shoulder, grinning, wiggling his eyebrows and providing a big thumbs up. “You can go!” he mouthed. I chose not to acknowledge that last part and went back to nursing my beer and pretending to care one iota about the Steelers and the Eagles. Go, sportsball! Out of the corner of my eye, I watched her. Was she smiling at him? Did she laugh at his jokes? About thirty minutes in, Craig turns to me and points a thumb in my direction. He’s smiling a confidant, I-can-introduce-them smile. Poor chap. She follows his gaze and sees me sitting at a table to the back, my feet propped up in the chair opposite me. They both come over to my table. I swallow the last of my Budweiser, now a little warm, and brush the shredded confetti I’ve made of the bright red label onto the floor. I push myself up a little straighter and set my feet on the floor, tugging at the hem of my Star Wars parody t-shirt. Earlier in the evening, I thought my Chewbacca/Solo 2005 campaign tee was a classic choice, paired with ripped jeans, red Chucks, and a warn flannel. Now, I am kicking myself for dressing like, well, a college guy. I do a quick, nonchalant, breath test before they make it to my table. Our eyes meet and everything and everyone else fades away. Sounds like a movie, right? There’s even a soundtrack. “Best of You” by the Foo Fighters blared from the jukebox behind me, but it wasn’t long before it fell to the background, a soft hum in the back of my thoughts, barely there. “I’ve got another confession to make, I’m your fool.” The lights dim to a warm glow aside from the singular, homemade beer bottle pendant above my table which is like a spotlight on just us. Center stage. Tunnel vision. All I see is her smile and then it hits me that I am staring at her mouth and completely missed Craig’s introduction of me.

“Oh. I’m sorry. I’m James. Craig’s roommate. Nice to meet you.” I awkwardly push my hand towards her in a half hand shake-half high five, moment of pure weirdness. Seriously. It looked like I was creating our own personal handshake. She giggles; the most beautiful sound I’ve ever heard and exuding confidence, purposefully grabs my right hand in both of hers and gives it a firm shake. Static electricity ran from the carpeting on the floor, through her body, and out her fingertips, straight into mine. I am sure there was a physical, blue snap of a spark. She doesn’t let go right away and my heart skips as if the shock from her touch were a defibrillator, simultaneously killing me and bringing me back to life. Craig looks back and forth between the two of us, noticing that we have never lost eye contact or physical contact. He gives a little huff, shrugs, and says, “Well, that’s that, I guess,” as he slinks dejectedly back to his place at the bar. I never apologized for that. And then, as they say in every cliché written in the lifetime of the planet Earth, the rest was history.

My anxiety is now in overdrive. Today is the day that we finally get to sign for the house. Our meeting with the bank is at eleven o’clock and I have been preparing for it for days now. In the grand scheme of things, the purchasing process has been a fast one. If the city of DeQueen could have symbolically thrown the keys out the window as they sped from the proverbial parking lot, I think they would have. “Good luck, sucka!” they’d shout as their tires squealed in a fit of gravel and smoke. I told Louise to dress up for the occasion, because I was taking her to a ceremonial lunch at the Shake Shack before heading to the house and then we would most definitely need a fancy before photo on the porch of our leaky, tumbledown shack.

“I’ll split a chocolate malt with you if you smile at me and call me handsome,” I said as I snaked my arm around her waist and pulled her into me. She laughed at me and called me cheesy, but I know she loves that about me. I opted for a nice pair of khakis that she had expertly pressed for me the night before while we watched an episode of Parks and Recreation on Netflix. Something we have watched a hundred times over, but still laugh at, much like each other. I love that she appreciates my affinity for Ron Swanson. If I could grow any semblance of a mustache, I’d be him. “Any dog under fifty pounds is a cat and cats are useless.” Word, my man. Word. Tucked into my chinos is a plain black polo, and of course, I’m sporting my signature red Chucks. I’ll be buried in these shoes. We coordinate in an “aww, isn’t that cute” sort of way, but not an “oh, that’s sad, they match” kind of way. We have this couple thing on lock.