Has Anyone Seen My Pants? (19 page)

Right when I arrived, Steph and Tara took me aside to get the latest news on my text relationship with Jon.

“Well, this morning we were texting and basically I just told him good luck. He said thanks and then he said he was heading over to the field.”

“He texted you today? The day of the Super Bowl?” Steph exclaimed.

“He loves you,” Tara said.

“I think he was just being nice because I had said—”

“Football players aren’t ever just being nice,” Steph explained. “I agree with Tara, he loves you.”

“Okay, well we haven’t even met yet so let’s all calm down.We’ve been hurt by this kind of situation before.”

“When are you meeting?” Tara asked, interrogating me.

“He’s taking his nieces and nephews to Disneyland in a couple of weeks, so I think he’s going to come up to L.A. and take me out.”

“That’s so cute that he’s taking his family to Disneyland! Plus, that’s what you’re supposed to do after the Super Bowl, so that means he knows they’re going to win!” Steph exclaimed.

“Huh? Who goes to Disneyland after they win the Super Bowl?” I asked, clueless.

“Hello? You’ve never seen the commercials?” Tara asked.

“What commercials?”

“The ‘I’m going to Disneyland’ commercials. What, do you live under a rock?” Steph asked.

“Oh, I’ve totally seen those,” I lied.

“Wait, so does he want kids?” Tara asked.

“No, he told me he doesn’t.”

“Oh thank God,” she said, looking at Steph with a relieved glance.

“What was that glance about?”

“Tara was worried that since he’s thirty-two he might want kids and since you don’t, it might end up being a deal-breaker for you guys.”

“You two talked about whether or not he wants to have kids? We haven’t even met yet. I think you guys need to take it down a notch. You’re getting too invested in this; I don’t want you two to end up heartbroken.”

“We just have a good feeling about it,” Tara explained.

“Plus, he used to play for the Packers!”
Steph yelled.

That day, I watched more of a football game than I ever had in my life.

When it was time for Jon to finally punt, the girls told me to get ready to watch.

“Great, I’ll go make us fresh drinks so we can toast after he punts!” I said excitedly as I headed to the kitchen to get some ice.

“Stop, dumbass. This isn’t baseball, he’s up right now,” Steph told me as she pointed toward the screen.

“Oh,” I said as I focused my attention back toward the television.

He only punted once, but when he did apparently it was very, very good. (I had to ask because just watching it told me nothing.)

“Why isn’t he playing more?” I asked after his one and only punt. “Does the team not like him or something?”

“What? It’s because it’s a blowout. They don’t need him to,” Steph explained.

“I don’t understand this game,” I sighed.

“Well, you better start understanding. You can’t be an NFL wife and not know what the fuck is going on,” she said, scolding me.

“So now I’m marrying him? We haven’t even met.”

“Don’t ruin my day,” she said as she handed me a Jell-O shot that I awkwardly tried to get in my mouth. It’s not easy.

An hour or so after the game, I received a text from Jon, shirtless, in the locker room, holding the team’s trophy in his hand. “Champions!” it said.

“Oh my God! Look!” I yelled as I motioned for Steph and Tara to come over.

“Oh my God!” Steph repeated. “He texted you right after he won the Super Bowl!”

“He loves you,” Tara said insistently.

I was actually just thinking about how good he looked shirtless. But then I realized they had a point. I received several random texts from Jon throughout the night, updating me on what sort of shenanigans ensued post–Super Bowl win. I have to admit, I was really taken by surprise that he thought
to text me. I mean, I had realized over the past couple of weeks that he seemed genuinely interested, but I assumed after winning a championship like that, single (and unfortunately, probably also married) guys walked around the city with their dicks out.

Over the next couple of weeks, Jon and I continued our constant texting. We would text about our day, our night, whatever. We would text that we missed each other, acknowledging that it was odd since we hadn’t even met. It felt very normal—like we had known each other forever and texting every day was a part of our usual activity.

Finally, the week of Jon’s trip to Disneyland arrived. We’d decided that he’d come up to L.A. and take me out to dinner on Monday night. He told me he wanted to plan the date, but that he might need a little help, as he wasn’t very familiar with the area. I loved that he wanted to plan it but also knew I better throw out a few restaurant suggestions because I certainly didn’t want our first date to be at a shitty restaurant in the Valley.

“Do you have a favorite Italian restaurant?” he texted one night.

“I do! Italian is my favorite!”

“I figured it must be, with your last name and all . . .”

I suggested a couple of places and let him pick one.

“Okay, I made a reservation for eight o’clock at Ago,” he informed me.

I was really hoping he’d pick Ago,
I thought, smiling.

He had driven his family up from Phoenix in a large rented Escalade.

“I can’t pick you up in this car, it’s huge. It’s too embarrassing,” he wrote me the morning of our date.

“Oh, I don’t care about that,” I assured him.

“No, really. It’s ridiculous. I can’t pick you up in this.”

“Well, I guess you could take an Uber up here? I don’t know what it would cost . . .”

“Oh, I’m definitely doing that. If you don’t mind?”

“Of course I don’t mind, silly. Plus that way you can have a couple of drinks without worrying about driving,” I wrote.

“I like the way you think.”

I don’t think it’s ever taken me as long to get ready for a date as it did that night. I mean, I’m no makeup wizard and my hair basically does itself, so I didn’t really spend any extra time on
that
—I put on the same two coats of eye shadow I’ve been putting on for twenty years, still consulting the back of the makeup case to figure out exactly how to apply to my eyelid “crease.” But it took me a
really
long time to get dressed.

I decided to text Sarah Tilley, who technically was still in charge of my love life, to ask her what I should wear. She wasn’t thrilled about the fact that I had met someone on my own and she was really not thrilled about the fact that it was a guy with a six-pack. So I wanted to give her
something
.

“Cute top, good butt-jeans, heels,” she responded immediately. “And underwear, please wear underwear.”

“I always wear underwear.”

“Oh, that’s right, that was me that used to not wear underwear. But I do now.”

“Well, that’s great news,” I responded.

“Are you going to have sex with him?” she asked.

“What? No! I mean . . . am I allowed to?”

“You can do whatever you want. If it’s the right guy, having sex on the first date doesn’t matter either way.”

“I agree! But I think I’m going to not have sex with him. Mostly because I know he has to go back to Anaheim and I’d rather have sex when he can sleep over. It feels dirty when they leave after.”

“True,” she agreed.

“But if
I
leave after it’s okay because that means I don’t like the guy that much.”

“Also true.”

“I’m glad we agree.”

“Have fun, whore,” she said, signing off with her usual charm.

“Thanks. And, Tilley? I’m really sorry he has a six-pack.”

“No you’re not.”

“You’re right, I’m not.”

I took Tilley’s advice and put on a cute top, my best ass-jeans, and a pair of wedge heels—they’re easier to walk in than regular heels, especially after a couple of drinks, and I certainly didn’t want to take any humiliating tumbles on our first date. If we dated for long, he’d get to witness plenty of those, as balance in general is not my strong suit. I changed my top about
sixteen times, finally settling on a black top that showed a
little
cleavage but not
too
much cleavage. Having my tits totally out for a professional athlete seemed a little too typical. I really thought this shit through, you guys.

When he knocked on my door, my heart started pounding and I immediately began to sweat.

Fuck. Why do I always sweat when I’m nervous?
I thought as I grabbed a towel and dabbed my face and armpits (I know,
classy
).

“Coming!” I yelled as I opened the door.

Why did I just yell “coming” when I’m clearly already here?

My heart skipped a beat. He was even more handsome in person than all of the images I had Googled—and I had Googled a lot of images of him.

“Hi.” He smiled.

“Hi.” I smiled back.

We stood there for a few seconds, or maybe it was ten minutes. Then he moved closer and kissed me. We kissed for a few seconds, or maybe it was ten minutes.

“I can’t believe you’re here,” I said as we pulled apart.

“I can’t either.” He grinned.

“Oh my God, I’m so sorry, come in,” I said as I moved out of the doorway. “Or do you just want to go? I can grab my purse.”

“Well, I told the Uber driver we would be a few minutes because I brought you something,” he said as he acknowledged a rather large bag in his hand.

We walked upstairs to my living room and I opened the gift he brought me, starting with the card.

“I feel like we know each other so well already but I just wanted to give you a few little things so you can get to know me a bit better . . . ,” the card read.

As I opened the bag, I found several items inside.

“What’s all this?” I asked as I pulled out DVDs, CDs, and candy.

“They’re my favorite things.” Jon smiled. “I’m excited to find out what your favorite things are, too.”

Oh my God, he’s gay,
sarcastic Sarah crept into my mind to utter.

Fuck off, he’s just incredibly thoughtful and you’re not used to that,
rational Sarah said insistently.

“This is amazing,” I said as I took in each item. One of his favorite movies was
Bull Durham
.
Points.

His favorite candy was Twizzlers.
I prefer Red Vines,
I thought.
This may never work.

Then I pulled out a bottle of champagne—his favorite—Veuve Clicquot.
Okay, this is good; I can deal with the Twizzlers thing.

“
I love this champagne, too!” I smiled.

“Do you have any plastic cups? Let’s pour a glass for the ride to the restaurant,” he suggested.

If he proposed right then I would have probably said yes.

At the restaurant, it was very obvious we were smitten. At one point I asked him if it seemed like the table was wider than tables at other restaurants.

“I’m so glad you said that, I feel so far away from you and I hate it,” he said as he held my hand from across the ocean-sized table between us.

I wanted to just go sit right next to him, but I had mocked too many “same sider” couples in my waitressing days to do so with a clear conscience. So instead, we sat suffering.

Jon ordered a bottle of Veuve, which I thought was something he was doing because it was a special occasion, but I would later find out that that’s just what he likes to drink, regardless of the meal. What? Don’t all six-foot-tall, buff NFL players order a glass of champagne with their lunch? If not, they should.

I think dinner was good, but neither of us was really paying attention to the food. We were lost in conversation, which thankfully came very easily for us. There’s nothing worse than the silent first-date dinner. We polished off our champagne as the waiter approached.

“Any dessert for the lovebirds?” He smiled.

Oh my God, we must look like such assholes,
I thought.

“Is it that obvious?” Jon laughed.

“You remind me of this older African-American couple that was in here before. They were so in love,” the waiter replied.

As we waited outside for the Uber driver after dinner, I looked up at Jon.

“Did our waiter compare us to an elderly black couple?” I asked him.

“Oh, good, you caught that, too.”

Later, when we got back to my place, my plan to maybe not have sex with him fell through. No, that’s not the first time that’s happened to me. But this time, it felt like waiting any longer would be complete torture—plus, we didn’t even know when we would see each other again.

He had to leave around five o’clock in the morning in order to take his family to Disneyland. I heard from him on his way to Anaheim, when he got to Anaheim, and all throughout the day.

“I wish I could see you again before I leave,” he wrote at one point, his thoughts mirroring mine.

I knew he wouldn’t have time to make the hour-or-so trek back up to Los Angeles, so I offered to come down to meet him for a quick drink that night, before he had to head back to Phoenix.

We were probably just as disgusting to watch that night while we sat at a quiet dive bar just around the corner from his hotel. I’m sure I owe an apology to the many deliriously happy-looking couples I’ve rolled my eyes at over the years. Later that night, I dropped him off back at his hotel, having to make do with kissing good-bye because his room was connected to his family’s room and any other sort of shenanigans on our part would have been a little bit rude.

“That’s my move,” I told him before he got out of the car, “I give it up on the first date, then hold out on the second.”

He made a comment about how horrible it was that he couldn’t take me upstairs and kissed me good night. I grinned like an asshole the whole drive home.

The next day, two dozen roses were delivered to my door. “I had the best time with you, I can’t wait to see you again,” the card read.

I immediately wrote him and thanked him, then took a picture of the roses and texted it to all of my girlfriends.

“Oh, he’s good,” every single one of them responded.