I can do this. I can totally do this. I can go in this door and go on this blind date.

I just have to walk up to a guy I've never met before and tell him that my best friend thinks we'd be perfect together. Plus, I'm wearing my height tester heels, so there's a bonus. There's nothing like finding out on a third date that if you continue dating this guy, you're stuck in flats for the rest of your life. I mean, look at Nicole Kidman and all those red carpet outfits ruined by Tom Cruise's height challenges. And this was before he went all whack-a-doodle on Oprah's couch.

I really should have said no when Janie called me and said she had found me a man. She means well. I know she does. It's just that she's been with her perfect man since the fourth day of university when she sat down next to Kyle in macroeconomics. He asked her for a pen, and she gave him so much more less than two hours later. Now all she has to do is sit at home writing blogs for her cats while he suffers through law school. Most of us haven't had that sort of luck. Most of us are total creeper bait.

Usually, I'm so good at finding excuses. However, according to Janie, "They finally put What Not to Wear on Netflix," is not a valid excuse. Also, she told me I can't hide from the world forever. Coming from a girl with a blog for her cats, it's a frightening accusation. She's also taken up knitting. I cannot be more pathetic than a grandmother stuck in a twenty-three year olds body, even if she's getting laid…consistently.

Oh, god. I really regret this dress. It's just…I'm a size eight for the first time…ever. For some reason, outlet malls become a whole lot more fun when you actually fit the clothes. Then, because you can, you buy the skankiest dress possible. And, between some extra help from my bra and the low cut of the dress, my boobs look fantastic. On the downside, I'm pretty sure my vagina is hanging out, the hem is so short. So, between the skank dress and the slut heels (purchased for a song during a separate trip), I'm beginning to really question my life choices. If there is an ounce of vinyl on those chairs I can barely see through the window, I'll become vacuum sealed to them.

I don't know how to be this person. The kind of girl with the cleavage showing and who talks to men. I don't know how to talk to men. I know how it's supposed to look, all laughing and light touching. I, however, generally go with the steamroller tactic. It's the kind of awkwardness that results from spending years knowing they'll never see you as any more than a friend. I start to ramble, and then the rambling becomes pop culture blabber. The grand finale is when I start trying to discuss TV shows no one else watches. You try seeming like a viable female when comparing low budget Canadian talk shows. I once told a political science master's student that I get all my news from the Space channel. The look on his face could only be described as constipation.

So what if I don't know what's going on in the world right now? It's always bad news. People are dying, wars are being waged, and money is missing. I know the economy is in the shitter, that's why I went to grad school. I also know the molecular mechanism of Viagra. For some reason guys really don't enjoy when you bring that up. Even if you do preface it with the fact it also cures jetlag in hamsters. Which I think is pretty neat.

Maybe it's for the best if I just call Janie and say I got into a car accident and couldn't make it. She'd know I'm lying but let's face it, cat blog. She's just in that weird phase right now where she's so happy in her relationship that she wants everyone to be happy and in relationships, especially their best friend since the third grade who recently lost over a hundred pounds. She's convinced if I just 'put myself out there' good things will happen. I'm convinced 'putting myself out there' will just lead to getting hit on by more pasty-faced boys who still live in their mothers' basements.

But she swore on all things holy, which for us is means chocolate cake - not that I've had chocolate cake in over a year, or white bread for that matter - that this guy was a good egg. A former co-worker of Kyle's, this guy, Ted or Fred maybe, is FINE: funny, independent, nice and employed. If you count working on your doctorate in geography as a job. Which I do, because grad school is not for the faint of heart. This is a step up from my usual type: angry, self-involved and hetero-questionable.

Maybe I should just peek through the window Tom Hanks style? He's supposed to bring a copy of The Great Gatsby and a yellow daisy. I'm not sure whose idea the book was, I've never been able to slog my way through it. Then again, I have never made it past the sixteenth page of Pride and Prejudice without falling asleep. I like the movies. I more than understand the appeal of Mr. Darcy, but I just can't seem to read the damn thing. At least it isn't a rose as well, that would just be tacky.

Damn it, the waitress is blocking my view. Also, why is she wearing yoga pants at work? I don't get it, I just don't. If you have the body to wear anything you could possibly dream of, you would think girls would discover something other than thin, black spandex. Oh wait, she moved. I can see the book and the flower! Now someone just has to move this giant support column and I will be able to look at this guy.

Well, at least his hands look nice and, from what I can see of the sleeves, he's wearing a legitimate jacket. Thank goodness. If his name was Fred – and I think maybe it is - and he was wearing some cardigan, I wouldn't just walk out the door, I would run. Maybe there's a different window I can look through? At least I can check out the hair situation. I certainly can't crouch any lower without giving someone a view to remember.

"Are you okay," a voice out of nowhere startles me. I manage to only stumble a little, before recovering what's left of my dignity and standing straight up. I look up at the tall guy standing slightly to my right wearing a well-fitting grey suit with a bright green tie. He looks about my age with dark eyes and a five o'clock shadow. I have to crane my head a little to see his face, which considering my current height, including shoes, being slightly less than six feet, is actually impressive.

"Oh, me? I'm fine," I say, checking for other witnesses.

"Really? Because you're standing in the bushes in front of one of the fancier restaurants in town." He's laughing at me. Well, I would too, if it wasn't me. It's a good laugh, deep and unforced. No heart, you are not allowed to flip-flop less than twenty-feet from the presumably perfect man, even if you can't remember his name and there's a handsome stranger with perfect hair talking to you. Besides he's obviously here for a date of his own.

"I'm just contemplating my life's decisions," I reply.

"Well, if it's the shoes, trust me, you made a good choice." He gives me an almost predatory look and I feel my cheeks redden slightly. At least I'm still wearing my long trench coat. I'm pretty sure the look he would give this dress would split my legs right open.

"It's not the shoes. Well, it's not entirely the shoes," I say, moving slightly to the right and peeking back through the large window. Damn it, still no visual. "Blind date," I continue pointing at the innocuous looking book and flower on the bistro style table.

"I think the key word here is blind, and you seem to be cheating."

"Badly!" I say defensively. "I saw hands, that's it. Besides, I was horribly tricked into coming tonight. I can't help it if I want to avoid an awkward meeting that will invariably lead to nothing."

"Or, he could be the one," he says, sarcasm seeping into his voice. Clearly, we were on common ground on this romance crap. I mean, there's compatibility and chemistry. But the idea that there was only one person out there that would complete you, pure garbage.

"God I hope not. Janie would never let me live it down." I laugh, tugging my jacket just a bit tighter.


"My friend, she set it up. Has this horrible habit of thinking she's always right."

"And is she?" He asks. His hands have come to rest in the pockets of his suit. If anything, this only emphasizes his broad-shoulders and trim waist. His crooked grin does something funny to my knees. It's as if they don't exist anymore.

"Right?" I confirm in a daze to a responding nod, "Generally, yes. However, there have been some outliers."

"Then, you should go." Go? Go where? I tilt my head, asking for clarification. "On the date. If this Janie is so convinced, he's the man for you, and she is generally right, you should go. I'm doing this guy a solid and ordering you to meet him. He deserves to meet a girl who can wear shoes like you." Does this guy have a foot fetish, or something? His black wingtips are oddly shiny for someone so young.

"Okay," I say with a nod of the head. "Wish me luck!" I give him a quick smile, trying to get out of the bushes as gracefully as possible. I walk purposefully towards the door, ignoring the pull I feel towards the mysterious stranger.

"I think he's the one who's going to need luck once he sees what's going on under that coat!" I hear him yell out behind me. So, he isn't just a shoe guy, good to know. I laugh and go in to meet my supposed fate.

"He asked me who my favourite Pokémon was," I hiss in the phone, nearly two tortuous hours later. I drown the remaining dregs of my amaretto sour, and motion to the waiting bartender for another. I had snuck back into the restaurant, laying claim to a stool at the empty bar, after pretending to leave once the date had finished. In my everlasting wisdom, I had handed the barkeep a fifty dollar bill and told him to call me a cab when the money was spent. "And when I said Dragonair, he called me a rube. He called me a rube to my face, Janie!"

"I said I was sorry!" She replies, her voice slightly buzzy. I don't know whether it's the two drinks I've already had to forget the experience, or my phone being a fossil. All I do know is that the minute I sat down on the, thankfully, cloth seat, and saw Kevvin, with two v's, in his ill-fitting sport coat and jeans combo, everything had gone downhill.

"He kept on trying to sit on the same side of the table. I didn't manage to finish my chicken Marsala because someone kept going for the upper thigh grab every time I tried to take a bite of food."

"Quinn-" she tries to interrupt my rant. But righteous anger is coursing through my veins, and I will not be silenced.

"When I went to go to the washroom, he offered to come with! He said, and I quote, he had a little friend he wanted me to meet, and it was his penis!" The bartender, eavesdropping shamelessly, snickers while handing me my refill. If I hadn't already pre-paid for my little bender, I would be so out of here. "How well does Kyle even know this asshole anyway?" I finally ask.

"They were both counselors at that camp he worked at during the summers. They both supervised on the ropes course," she replies meekly. "I met Kevv a couple times, he seemed perfect for you, I swear. He quoted Doctor Who for crying out loud."

"Yes well, he wasn't. You somehow managed to find a perverted nerd with an elitist complex. And I wasted a perfectly nice dress." At least my fuzzy mind has eliminated that uncomfortable feeling, even if I was keeping my legs securely crossed…just in case. "You know why he wanted to bring a copy of The Great Gatsby? To show me the kind of parties he aspires to create, because he's only seen the Baz Luhrmann version. I tried to explain that anything with alcohol during Prohibition would seem hip, but he just kept staring at my boobs. I mean, they look good, but after an hour you'd think he'd start to at least notice my terrible personality."

"You don't have a terrible personality," Janie states, and I involuntary groan. This was one of our oldest fights, when I was fat. You know how people usually say, "But she has a lovely personality," when discussing someone less than physically appealing. I'd insist that I was going to die alone, all Herbert Spencer-like, mainly due to being unattractive both inside and out. She was convinced that it just took some time for my good qualities to shine through.

"Whatever, Jay. Can we at least be agreed this was our last venture into socializing the new-and-improved Quinn?" I take a long sip of my drink, and pull my hair out of the stylish bun I had wrangled it into earlier. I feel just a little more like myself and relax, heel hooked onto the stool.

"Never. It's just a minor setback on the way to happiness."

"I am happy." I reply with a groan. "You don't need a man to be happy. I like the research I'm doing. I like my apartment. I'm ecstatic that Parks and Recreation hasn't been cancelled…"

"But are you being taken care of?" She asks, placing an innuendo laden emphasis on 'taken care of'.

"You know damn well, I'm not," I hiss into the phone. I give the bartender, wiping down glasses a few paces away, a glare. Hinting that if he didn't stop eavesdropping immediately, his tip was going to significantly suffer. I may not be a classy lady, but my business is mine alone.

The curious side effect of being, well, fat, is that you only attract whack-a-doodles with mommy issues. And the appeal of sleeping with one of them was distinctly unappealing, so I didn't. Having sex just for the sake of having it, just seemed super 'after-school special'. Then again, so does being a twenty-three year old virgin. It's just a different form of regret.

I continue talking to Janie, "Besides, after my experience with Handsy McPervertson, I'm perfectly okay with it." For the most part, at least. When I haven't been sexually harassed by a future PhD, it's another matter entirely. I exchange my empty glass for full one. "I just need to find a guy who won't sit around with his buddies afterwards talking about desecrating that scared temple. And I know guys talk like that because that's exactly what Mitch Goldstein, a history major from the third floor of Galloway Hall, said when he finally boned Claire Stewart, who went on to become the residence hall slut. Not that I condone calling a girl a slut, but the girl got around."

"There are decent guys everywhere. Just look at me and Kyle. You just need to open yourself up to the possibility of love." I roll my eyes at the corniness. Someone's been reading self-help books again.

"You said this one was a decent guy. I mentioned he did the robot while asking for my bra size, right?" Right in the middle of dessert, which I hadn't been able to escape. I shudder at the memory; obviously I'm drinking too slowly. Talking really gets in the way of burgeoning alcoholism. Not that I could ever justify becoming an alcoholic due to one (or ten) bad dates, too many calories. Maybe I should switch to vodka? I indicate the switch to my favourite barman.

"I'm so sorry," is the only response she seems capable of.

"And then…And then…" I stutter, "He insisted on helping me put my coat on. Insisted! Practically grinded his stiffy into my ass in the process. And you know what he said!?" I hiccup instead of pausing dramatically as planned. "He said, 'How about we play binary, baby? I'll put my one in your zero, and we'll make some code together.' That's not even accurate!" I spill a little of my drink on the shiny wooden bar, my actions less precise at the moment.

"He didn't?"

"Oh, he did." Wait, that wasn't Janie. That voice definitely didn't belong to a five foot Asian girl. It sounded distinctly male, all deep and gravelly. I turn to my left and see that in my stupor green tie had made himself quite comfortable beside me. I squeak into the phone, "Gotta go Jay! Talk to you later! Bye!" I end the call, flipping my dinosaur phone shut, against her loud protests. I drop it on the bar and turn towards the mysterious man in the tailored suit.

"So, I'm taking it didn't go well?" He asks, completely at ease, as if he hadn't just interrupted a private conversation. The bartender pushes a drink towards him, and he takes a slow sip. I settle for a glare, the safest option given my inebriation. Granted, it was his fault, he was the one who made me go inside.

"Well, I was right about one thing at least," he says with a shrug and a casual assessment of my appearance. His appraising glance reminding me to check that my hem was still decent. "That dress is trouble personified."

"And he was a douche-nozzle." I slur slightly, keeping both hands on the counter. Does he seem even hotter now? How is that possible? The harsh light of day is supposed to show all those little things people hide in the dark. But green tie looks better in the warm light of the bar than he did outside. Albeit, he is slightly fuzzy.

"How much have you had to drink?" He asks. A couple pairs of concerned brown eyes look back at me. I take a long sip of my vodka soda and look at the bartender, squinting to read his nametag for the first time.

"Well, Stevie and I made a deal. I gave him money, and he keeps giving me alcohol until the money runs out. Then he calls me a cab. So…" I try to count on my fingers and give up, "many."

"Well, it might be time to stop." Oh boy, there's two of him now, that's fun. And they're both total party poopers.

I shake my head, before replying. "Can't"


"Because if I stop drinking then I can remember his hand on my leg and my skin crawls." I murmur emphatically. His rough hand suddenly captures one of my own, comforting and frightening all at once.

"I could kill him for you," he says, a determined look on his face. I gulp at the intensity of his gaze. "Just say the word and his ass is toast." Well, that has to be the nicest thing a guy has ever said to me. Guess that time Donny Peterson said I was a good driver is now taking a close second.

"S'okay. I'm taking care of the problem."

"You're drowning the problem."

"Same difference."

"Not exactly," he says before turning to the barkeep and saying, "Hey Steve, could you go to the kitchen and tell Gale to put on a fresh pot of coffee for me?" Huh?

Stevie, my now former-new best friend, replies, "No problem, boss," and leaves us alone in the empty bar. Oh, so green tie is the manager or at least someone high up the food chain.

"You work here?"

"I own here."


"Mmhmm. Logan Pembrooke, current owner and manager of Silvaggio's." He thrusts his hand out for me to shake.

"Quinn Sinclair," I reply, reaching out tentatively. "Master's student and mess extraordinaire."

"Pleasure," his warm hand envelopes mine, and little tingles run pleasantly up my spine. "Now what do you say, Quinn, we sober you up so that when I flirt with you, and I will, I don't feel like a total creep?"

As I soon find out, Logan is twenty-seven and a nearly perfect human being. He had inherited Silvaggio's from his maternal grandparents approximately two months after graduating with a business degree five years prior and they had decamped to warmer climates. His Nonno, grandfather in Italian, and I'm assuming a small, white-haired man with an affinity for cheek kissing as a greeting, still calls biweekly to check in on the restaurant but business has never been better. His parents had avoided the family business by both being doctors at a large children's hospital one township over.

Also, despite his earlier remarks on my outfit, he's been the perfect gentleman. He's been politely refilling my coffee, as his two heads gradually merged back into one. And he's not married, I checked once I was sober enough.

The only strange thing about him, I've discovered, is that when he talks to you, he looks you in the eyes. It's actually quite jarring at first. I've never realized how much of my life has involved talking through computer screens. A nice impersonal barrier to true human connection. But the way his eyes have been locked with mine, it has been unexpectedly pleasant.

I've told him things too. About my self-employed father and teacher mother. The little house, three hours away, I call home. I told him about growing up the second child, always in the shadow of my perfect sister. The time the family dog, Jacques, a hyperactive Labrador, chased a squirrel with such determination he fell into the pool. I gloss over the whole fat thing, because I'm not entirely stupid. Also I haven't mentioned any Canadian talk shows, not even the Rick Mercer Report.

It's long past closing time, but neither of us had made any overtures to leave. He made the horrible mistake of asking me about my research project, and I have been boring him ever since.

"Wait, so you electrocute these cells, just to get them to make a tiny little molecule?" He asks, leaning forward slightly in his seat.

"To make a lot of the tiny little molecule," I correct. I tap my bare feet lightly on the bar front, my shoes long since relegated to the floor. "And then, I grow a bunch of those cells and horribly murder them to isolate the protein."

"That sounds barbaric."

"Any more barbaric than killing Bambi and eating him?" I tease back. I look pointedly around the restaurant. "Besides, they're single-celled organisms, no neurons, no pain."

"Hey, I just buy the meat."

"I know, and there's nothing wrong with that, meat is good. Did you ever hear about the couple who killed their cat by forcing it to eat vegan?"


"Mmhmm. Unlike humans, cats are carnivores; it's why their teeth are so pointy." I point towards my own teeth, ignoring the way his gaze lingers on my mouth afterwards. "Take away their protein and no more kitty-cat."

"You're just full of fun information," he says, taking a sip of his coffee.

"Glad you think so," I reply with a giggle. "Every time I use the phrase 'fun fact', people tend to groan."

"I have a fun fact for you," he says brightly, and it even seems genuine. No awkward emphasis on fun fact implying the fact was in his pants.

"Hit me," I respond, with a wiggle of my eyebrows.

"I bribed your waiter earlier to spill that glass of red wine on your date." I laugh, remembering the horrified look on McPervertson's face. It had happened as we had been leaving, and had effectively enabled my escape. I give Logan my widest smile.

"I gave the waiter a twenty-dollar tip for that move!" Best twenty-dollars I had ever spent. We dissolve into laughter, knees bumping into each other.

"So, he was that bad, huh?"

"He spent twenty-minutes telling my boobs about how reading Ulysses changed his life, before asking what I thought about blow jobs," I grumble. The stupid arrogant pig had nearly made me fall asleep. If I hadn't been playing 'get your hands off of me' at the same time, I probably would have.

"Then why did you stay so long?" Logan asks, elbow propped on the bar, his jacket long abandoned and his tie loosened making him look much younger than his twenty-seven years. His sleeves rolled up in that way that makes all girls swoon. I take a swig of coffee, composing an answer.

"He had this look that said if I tried to leave before his time was up, I'd end up in a dumpster somewhere. Plus, free food."


"Anyway, I guess I have you to thank for getting me out of it." I give him a small smile, tucking a small bit of hair behind my ear.

"It wasn't exactly an altruistic action," he says darkly, and my heart starts to beat just a bit faster. The stretchy fabric of my dress feels just a little bit tighter under his gaze. Is it getting hotter in here? Did the thermostat break in the last ten seconds?

A hand falls onto my bare knee, and unlike earlier, my skin doesn't crawl at the contact. If anything, I lean into the touch.

"Quinn?" His thumb is caressing the small indentation beside my kneecap sending little pulses of heat through my body. It's so calming and exciting all at the same time.

"Mmhmm?" I murmur, in my foggy state. My eyes fluttering almost shut in anticipation. Our faces have grown increasingly closer together.

"I'm going to kiss you now," he states, not asking for the permission I've obviously already granted. He goes in for the kill, no preamble or awkward fumbling. I don't even have a second to panic and back out.

In books, they always talk about men who know how to kiss and, oh boy, I would have to add Logan to the list. His mouth more than making up for my inexperience. His actions are slow and thorough, and utterly gasp-worthy. He makes no move to deepen the kiss, and I can't help but smile at how simple and intimate it is. If a simple kiss from him can take my breath away, who knows what else this man is capable of?

He pulls away as suddenly as he had approached. A goofy smile is plastered on his lips, a sentiment I'm sure I'm returning full force.

"Wow," I murmur, slightly frozen in shock.

"My sentiments exactly," he replies, eliciting a small giggle from me.

"So, what now?" I ask. And I really want to know. I have this strange feeling that this is the kind of guy who can deal with my crazy. I can do this, this romance stuff. At least, I can foresee myself kissing this man, and maybe more, frequently and in the near future.

"Now, you give me your number, and I, your knight in slightly wrinkled armour, calls you."

"Interesting idea."

"I have lots of good ideas; most of them right now involve us doing some interesting things, things that don't involve any clothes whatsoever. But on behalf of the male gender, I feel like it's my duty to show you how a gentleman acts. So I'm proposing a date, the civilized kind, where you look gorgeous, I look dashing, I open doors for you, and don't grope my way through dinner."

"Can we nix the door thing?" I never understood the male genders belief that women are incapable of opening a door for themselves. As such, the awkward shuffle that occurs every time I reach a door as the same time as a guy is simply aggravating. Didn't they get the memo that chivalry is dead?

"Sorry, no. The door thing is just something you'll have to live with. My Nonna would beat me with a spatula if I dared let a lady soil her pretty hands on a dirty door."

"Couldn't have that, could we?"


"I think I can accept that." I reply with a large smile. He smiles back and little crinkles at the side of his eyes appear and if I wasn't sitting, I would fall to the floor. He hands me his smart phone, and I plug in my number. I hand it back with a smile and he slips it back into his pocket.

He stands up slowly, offering me a hand. I take it carefully, aware of how our contact makes my heart beat just a bit faster. I slip to the floor, under his guidance, and feel the rough carpet under my bare feet. I pull my coat back on and look at Logan. He's already put his jacket back on, his eyes focused on my shoes, resting on the floor. I bend down towards the ground, picking up my shoes by the heel. I'm not putting them back on. The prospect of trying to shove my swollen feet back into them makes my feet twinge in phantom pain.

We walk slowly out of the restaurant, my feet silent on the ground. I wait as he locks the front entrance, his keys jangling in the silent night air. I point towards my vehicle, and he follows. My shoes and purse dangle from my one hand, leaving the other for Logan to hold. It's not far, but a few steps from the door I look back at him. His eyes are taking in my every movement. And it's not my ass, my feet, or my boobs, he's looking at. It's the whole damn thing, and that predatory look from earlier has been replaced by something new. It's probably been there for awhile but I'm just seeing it now. Something I may have refused to acknowledge until this point, now that words can no longer pull my focus.

It's that look. I've seen it in movies and on TV, but never in real life. I always assumed it to be a myth, like the Easter bunny or teenagers who wear Crocs. But there it is, all laid out in his eyes. He likes me. Logan's seeing a future being created right here, right now. In his eyes, I feel perfect and that is more terrifying than spending an eternity locked in a room with a thousand McPerverts.

Sometime in the next twenty-or-so footsteps, I come to a decision. I can't start this with a lie. I may not have much…or any experience with this stuff, but I know I need to tell him. He keeps looking at me and seeing perfection. But I'm not perfect, so far from it. He needs to know before it's too late, for either of us.

"Logan?" I ask timidly, turning to face him. I pull my hand from his and adjust my jacket belt which had come loose.

"Uh-huh." He replies, stepping towards me, invading my senses.

"I have something I should probably tell you." I mumble, stepping back. My back meets the cold metal of the car behind me, and I'm trapped.

"You used to be a man?" He jokes, and I break out in laughter. I hate how he can do that. Undercut my honesty with humour. And by hate, I mean I love it.

"God no. I solemnly swear I have never had a penis." I say, holding my hand up as if taking an oath. He chuckles at my declaration before taking my back hand in his. His fingers roaming over mine.

"That's good to know." A serious expression overtakes his face and he locks his eyes with mine before replying. "So, what do you need to say?"

I can do this, really, it's not that hard. I break eye contact and fix my gaze on the concrete below. Come on Quinn, it's just four little words. You can say it. Just don't look at him, don't see the look disappear in his eyes. Our fingers are still intertwined, and I use that strength to power my words.

"I used to be fat." There, I said it. I may have said it to the ground, but I said it out loud. This cute, adorable man is now free to run away to someone without crazy running through their veins. Some perfect little blonde can snatch him up to make perfect little babies.

"So?" I hear his question, and its bluntness startles me. I expected something a tad more…dramatic or angry.

"So, you aren't weirded out or anything?"

"Quinn, I grew up with Italian grandparents who own a restaurant babysitting me while my workaholic parents spent hours at the hospital."

"So?" I repeat his earlier question. His point lost in personal details I already know.

"So, my point is," Logan's voice has gone all deep and gravelly, sending my heart pounding. This strange pause gives me time to panic. He fills the distance between us and takes a deep breath before whispering in my ear. "I used to be fat, too."

What could a girl possibly say to that? Nothing, that's what. I drop my shoes and purse, wrap my hands around his neck and pull him in for a kiss that would put old black-and-white movies to shame. Suck it Ingrid Bergman and Humphrey Bogart. We draw each other closer, finally letting our bodies crush together. I can feel his heartbeat, beating as fast as mine, and surrender to the urgency of his lips. He lifts me up against the car behind me, so my feet leave the cold concrete and my legs wrap around him for support.

There are so many maybes running through my mind, while I'm kissing Logan. Maybe, we're doomed. Maybe, we're perfect enough for each other. Maybe, he'll find some hidden flaw later on. Maybe, just maybe, we don't need to care about the past when there's so much future to live. Maybe…aw, hell…maybe I should stop thinking and just enjoy this moment.