When Size Matters. Carly Laine

from Bob Dylan. She and my dad really loved that old guy. Still do.” And God knows, it could have been worse. She liked Jimmi Hendrix and Janis Joplin a lot, too. Or, heaven forbid, Roy Orbison. I could just hear her. “Well, Orbison, darling, what can I say? It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

      “It’s not so bad,” I continued, “I like Dylan’s songs okay—well, the words to his songs. I think his voice must be an acquired taste.” I saw my mom again, thirty-some years ago, in halter top and hip huggers, hair to her waist parted straight down the middle, acquiring a taste for Dylan with a bong and a beanbag chair. “Anyway,” I breezed on, “Nobody calls me Sky, except my grandma. Thank goodness. I’ve been Dylan since birth.” I stopped, suddenly aware of the important distinction between breezy and windy, not even sure which parts I’d said aloud. “It suits me just fine,” I mumbled, puttering down to a halt.

      “Yeah,” he agreed. “Kinda no-nonsense and poetic both.”

      Ooh. I liked that. I stared at his mouth again.

      “But Sky…” He let the thought trail. “Sky’s magic. Sky…just floats off your tongue.”

      I shouldn’t have been looking at his mouth. I flushed red at the image. It’s okay to be a visual person if your visions don’t play out on your face for the whole damn world to witness. I pictured myself, legs dangling, head and arms thrown back, floating off his tongue. I blushed.

      “So…no more images of shapeless clothes and stringy hair?” I croaked, probably sounding way too earnest and intense.

      His look took in the straying curls and vacuum packaging. “No, no. Sorry about that. It’s just that I quit trusting my friends ever since they hooked me up with that Dallas Cowboy’s cheerleader who was uncomfortable with silence. Hell, my ears are still throbbin’. But now it’s your turn. You tell me. How’d ya have me pictured?”

      Lord. That smile again. He could have been talking about worm farms for all I cared. I didn’t answer. I was thinking that this was what a heart-melting grin must look like. A true Texas-boy smile. Impossible not to get pulled in. That was the magnet. The beautiful teeth, those fantasy lips, the smile that tugged over too far to the right. It made you want to stick around, hang out. Maybe I could learn to like bowling.

      “Dylan?” he coaxed, eyebrows up.

      I forced myself to look up at his eyes, or at least his eye. I could never look at both of someone’s eyes at the same time without mine crossing. I just picked one and stared at it. Come to think of it, the saying is “look him in the eye” so maybe everyone does that. I like it when I find evidence that I’m not totally weird.

      His eye was pirate black. I could hardly even see the pupil. I looked right at the bridge of his nose to see both of them at once. They were so, so dark, not dazzling like his mouth, but deep and unreadable. I wondered what our children would look like. Stop it, I ordered.

      His question had hung in the air too long; I decided not to answer. I gazed back at him, smiling my version of Mona Lisa’s smile. Then I had this image of a baby smiling when you don’t know if it’s grinning or having gas and decided to just plain smile. I felt the heat in my body, wanted him to touch me again. The quiet hung between us but it didn’t worry me. It was a good thing. Unlike Chatty Cheerleader, Silence would be my friend.

      He read the vibes, stepped closer and took my hand again, holding it to his chest, cupped loosely in his. “You wanna go somewhere?” he asked in a kind of croaky whisper. “Now?” If this had been a movie, he would have said, “Let’s get out of here.” He was good in this new role, husky voice and all. I knew he knew the effect he had, knew he did it on purpose. He was too close. I wanted to step back, get a little space, but he’d tightened his grip on my hand and I’d have had to yank it to get it loose. I willed myself still and tried to read the vibes, tried to get a sign from those night-black eyes.

      And then, pop! The bubble burst. My mom always said I got too tangled up in my own antennae. I felt myself spiraling into rapid cool-down, getting uncomfortable, antsy. I looked around to see if I could see my date, see if maybe he’d like to take another stab at a rescue. He was gone.

      I shook my head, telling Brad, no, sorry, no, I was busy. That’s what I said to guys who made me nervous. But this time it was true. Somewhere out there I had a date, a date anxious to relive my special moments of humiliation on the dance floor.

      “Come on. Just coffee. I’d like to get on out of here. I’ve enjoyed about all I can stand of the funny looks.” He tilted his head at the people walking by, sneaking peeks. I’d been in my own world, thought we were alone. “How about it? We leave now, you’d have time for just a little coffee. Yes?” He stepped back, turned down the heat and cranked up the sunbeam. It looked like it came from inside, way deep down inside.

      And I could feel the pull again, tugging. No way, Dylan. Magnet Man’s a player. A rough-edged, hard-handed player. A noncandidate. I looked away from him, still shaking my head a little, and tried to go through my usual list, those things that I absolutely required in potential candidates. The list I used to talk myself out of guys. Except I couldn’t focus. I just knew that he wasn’t shorter than me and that he wasn’t dumb—that was a guess. It was hard to tell with all those long drawn-out Texas vowels.

      I couldn’t seem to help it, flopping around from flame to ice to fire again. My friends said I did it so I could stay safe, keep guys from getting too close. But it wasn’t that. It was just that I was looking for the right guy. A real guy. Someone I could count on.

      It took such a leap of faith.

      But here was this guy with the sunshine smile, a guy who made my heart flip and my toes curl. This time I needed to get brave enough to jump. Except my feet were nailed to the floor.

      3

      BY THE NIGHT of number eleven I’d already had a thousand first dates. Let me make sure that’s right. Let’s see, a thousand first dates calculates out to about a hundred and eleven first dates every year since my first soul-shriveling date with Cal Richardson when I was fifteen. That would mean at least two first-dates every single weekend for the past nine years…Okay, no, not a thousand, then. But however many there had been, I had a tight, blue rubber band around my heart from each one of those disasters. Pity I couldn’t just look inside and count the bands. Like rings on a tree.

      Sadly, my second dates numbered somewhat less. Like maybe ten. Steady, long-term relationships had not been my specialty.

      If somebody else told me that about themselves, I’d guess the problem was something subtle, not immediately apparent. Like maybe misplaced nipples or braided nose hair. So what was it with me? My super-helpful friends had offered their theories: I was too cautious, I was scared of being left, yada, yada, yada. I had no idea what the problem was, either, but I did wonder why I kept trying. ’Cause it kept getting harder.

      Cal Richardson was my first first date. Cal was fairly typical of the guys at my high school—walking hormones with lips. I was so flattered that Cal-oh-my-God-Richardson had asked me out that I floated on air the week before the big date. My feet didn’t once touch the ground from the time he called until the disastrous end of the date when I had to put one foot in front of the other as I stumbled to a pay phone to call my mom to come get me. I went out with Cal because he was gorgeous, intelligent and had crystal blue eyes. Cal went out with me to see if my boobs were real. Apparently he and his jock friends were unaware of the phenomenon of girls maturing suddenly and dramatically over the few months of summer vacation. They nicknamed me Mammy, short for mammary. It stuck for a long, long time. And, okay, I’m not going to think about that anymore.

      The day of number eleven, I’d already had one thousand and one and counting first dates—okay, really, some-big-number-less-than-a-thousand plus one with Matt. The guy who wanted to be friendlier than friends. The guy who didn’t rescue me. A perfect Dylan-style first date. And like so many before it, a date that would have no second date follow-up.

      So there I was, searching the reception for Matt,