Take It Slow

“Blimey!” Was all he said.

He toppled forward a bit, stumbling out the half-opened door onto the sidewalk, me after him. In my haste to regain my footing enough to march back in and beat the snot out of Bryony, I tripped over my own feet and only saved myself from plummeting head-first onto the sidewalk by gripping Phelps’s outstretched arm. The hand, which had previously been holding his phone, was now free (he’d dropped it somewhere, I guessed), and he placed it on my upper arm to steady me.

After an agonizingly slow minute of standing there, stupidly looking up at him without saying anything, he raised his eyebrows at me and smiled a little.

“All right?” He asked, not trying to take his arm away. I stood there, holding onto it like a child.

“Ah, yeah.” I said.

“Too much to drink?” He asked, and I could hear the laugh at the edge of his voice. “You going to be okay? Need a cab or something?”

“No, no.” I said, shaking my head vigorously and releasing him. I brushed my hair out of my face with my palm and flailed madly for something impressive to say. “Only two pints” was all I could manage and I was suddenly so ashamed.

“You’re sure?” He asked, narrowing his eyes at me.

“Yeah.” I said. He might’ve believed it, too, but of course nothing is ever that easy. In a mortifying situation which would only happen to me, the carbonation from the pint I’d just chugged down decided to resurface in the world’s most unattractive hiccup. I clapped my hand over my mouth with wide eyes.

“Maybe I should call you a cab.” He said, this time not bothering to hide his laugh.

“Honestly, I’m fine. My friend, ah, tripped me. Sort of as a joke. You just happened to be standing in the wrong place.” I looked around sheepishly and spied his phone on the ground two feet to my left. I bent down and picked it up, then offered it to him. “Sorry about that.”

“No matter.” He said, taking the phone and stowing it in his pocket. “Rather have you fall on me than hit your head on the sidewalk, or something. I’m Oliver, by the way.”

So it was Oliver. Oliver Phelps, the film star. And, boy, wasn’t he attractive in the dim light from the street lamps. For a minute, I forgot how to speak.

“Milo.” I finally said, extending my hand for a shake. He took it slowly, warily eyeing me, and I knew it was because he thought I was making it up.

“Milo,” He nodded slowly. “Okay. Well, I’m off to meet some mates at a pub down the street. Noho isn’t really my bar of choice.”

“Yeah, I get it. I’m only here because I was forced.” I shrugged, starting to feel a little more like myself again. Just myself, standing on the street, talking to an attractive guy I’d met – uh, fallen on – at the bar. It was dangerous, unfamiliar territory to me. Deep down in my gut, I knew that I’d probably say something dumb and make an ass of myself. But I decided to take this as far as I could.

Ask me for my number. Go on, ask me. I half bit my lip, half smiled at him in an attempt at being flirtatious. Miraculously, it worked better than I thought it would.

“If you’re trying to escape, you could always come with me.” He said, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “I mean, it’s just a pub around the corner. I wanted to watch the match.” He said, motioning to his jersey.

I hoped my feeling of utter shock wasn’t painted on my face. Inside, I was completely bowled over. Never in my life had I been asked out for a drink. Back in the ‘States, I’d dated one asshole for four years, and when I’d moved to Bolton, the only dates I’d had were friends of Bryony’s who couldn’t find someone else. Not that I was disgustingly disfigured or devoid of social graces, or anything. I was just kind of quiet in most situations. And tall. As in, taller than most men my age. But not this one! I was internally cheering and gushing and giggling all over the place. Outside, I might’ve blushed a little bit.

“Yeah, I’ll go.” I said.

“Good.” He smiled, then said “Do you have friends you want to bring or anything? Did you come with someone?”

I thought for a minute about Bryony in all her stupid perfection. In my head, I saw her with her adorable drunk giggle and her mastery of the art of seduction. Oliver would be smitten in about a minute and a half. I decided to shake my head.

“Just came with a friend, and she’s met a boy. Noho’s more her scene.” I said.

We walked down the sidewalk, a little more quickly than I would’ve liked because it was getting cold out. I could see wisps of my breath when I talked. He asked me where I was from and I told him. He asked me how I liked Bolton and I told him it was nice. He asked me what year I was and I wanted to rip my hair out in frustration, but then I had to remind myself that seduction generally takes time and he wasn’t going to want to rip my clothes off me not fifteen minutes after meeting me. And so I calmly answered just before we arrived in the dark doorway of a pub, which was noisy even from the outside.

“This is my favorite, I think.” Oliver said, grinning. “Come on, if you’re coming.”

He took my hand in his and led me through the door. There was a fluttery feeling in my stomach that was far too distracting; I didn’t even notice my surroundings until I was seated at the bar with Oliver to my right.

“What’re you drinking?” he asked, waving over the bartender.

“Guinness.” I said without really thinking. It was my drink of choice, being a poor college student. I would’ve vastly preferred some fruity mixed drink with an obscene amount of vodka, but one must alter tastes to accommodate one’s meager alcohol budget. Oliver looked impressed.

“Are you sure you’re a girl?” He chuckled, then ordered Guinness for me and a Newcastle for himself. The beers appeared in front of us, and I sipped mine for a couple of minutes without saying anything while he stared at the flatscreen above the bar.

“You don’t talk much.” He said once there was a break in the game.

“I’m nervous.” I said honestly, deciding that I didn’t want to beat around any bushes. Trying to be witty usually ended up with me looking awkward and my date running in the opposite direction. I hoped Oliver would think it was endearing or charming or something. To my relief, he smiled.

“And why’s that, Milo?” He said, drawing out the ‘oh’ part of ‘Milo’.

“I don’t know.” I said, shrugging and sipping my Guinness. “I’m not good at dates. Or, well, whatever this is.”

The match had come back on, but he was still looking at me with a grin. I found myself wondering if there was ever a time he didn’t smile, but simultaneously decided I didn’t care if there wasn’t because he had this dimple under his left eye that showed up every time and I was kind of in love with it. I waited for him to respond but he just chuckled, sipped his beer, and turned back to the television.

“What?” I said.

“Nothing.” He shook his head.

“Seriously, what?”

“I think you’re crazy.” He said, looking at me again. He turned on his stool until his knees bumped my right thigh.

“Am not!” I said defensively.

“You’re wearing a leather jacket and combat boots, but I met you at Noho. You’re from the ‘States, but you sound like you were born just down the way. You drink Guinness like a bloke. Your name is Milo. Nothing crazier.”

“So if I’m crazy, what does that make you?”

“Dunno.” He shrugged. “I’m the one who invited you, aren’t I? Maybe I like crazy.”

Suddenly, it dawned on me. I looked around the bar for people I knew I wouldn’t recognize from anywhere, but who maybe were trying to get Oliver’s attention. He had said he was meeting mates here. He had implied there would be a whole group, not just the two of us, and here we were, just us drinking beer at the bar with him telling me I’m crazy and he likes it. I decided to ignore this and try my hand at flirting again, thinking maybe I could chalk this one up as a success at the end of the night if I just pushed a little further.

“So. You haven’t told me anything about yourself.” I said, waving for another beer like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Nothing to tell.” He said, winking.

“You expect me to believe that?”

“Yep.”

“Listen, for all I know, you’re the type of terrible villain that breaks hearts and steals candy from children.”

“You’ve got me exactly. The worst sort.” He laughed, but didn’t make the effort to say anything else.

“Well, okay,” I said, sucking my teeth and thinking. “What do you do for a living?” I asked, checking myself so that my eyes wouldn’t narrow analytically.

His collected, calm exterior rippled for a minute, and he glanced away from me. His eyes fixed on the game for a minute. I knew he wasn’t going to tell me the truth, and I didn’t particularly blame him. I was curious about what he’d say (perhaps I was partially testing his creative ability to think on his feet, I don’t know). I also knew I wouldn’t call him out on it if he lied. I wouldn’t admit that I knew who he was. I’d play along for as long as he wanted, if it meant he’d like me more for it.

After what felt like an hour but what was more like a few seconds, he looked back at me with a slight smile.

“I dabble in this and that. Play golf, invest a little, work a little on some advertising projects. Nothing too serious.” He said. I knew that his high profile allowed him to be sort of a sponsor or spokesperson for some companies, and that he probably made a complete killing off of it.

Ah, well played. Not a complete lie, but not the truth, either.

“What about you?” He asked, switching the attention off himself expertly. He’d probably done it a thousand times in a thousand bars with a thousand different girls. “What are you going to school for? What do you want to do after graduation?”

The question was fairly benign, or I guess it would’ve been for anyone else. Most of the time, when I talked about career ambitions and what I was hoping to do for the rest of my life, I received shifty-eyes, uncomfortable throat-clearings, and a couple startled blinks. Lucky for me, in this particular situation, the shock factor had the potential to work in my favor. I lowered my eyes and smiled, giving him what I hoped was the “bedroom eyes” look. I probably looked more mindless than lusty, but, either way, Oliver had started to smile and was leaning more toward me.

“Well,” I said, sipping my beer and leaning closer until our faces were only a little ways apart, as if I was going to whisper some big secret. “I’m going to be a sex historian.”

Oliver’s eyes locked on mine for a minute, and I saw the wheels turning while he digested the information. After only a second or two, he was chuckling and shaking his head. He leaned away again and laughed a little louder.

“Wait, wait, wait.” He said, waving to the bartender for another round. “How is that a real job? I think you’re making that up.”

“I’m not!” I said indignantly. “Of course it’s real. Why shouldn’t it be? People have been having sex for as long as we’ve existed! Sex is a huge part of every single culture on this planet! Sex is - ”, and I launched into a long description of my chosen topic of study, about brothels in Rome, about orgies in Greece, about the concubines of ancient China. He seemed interested and asked questions here and there. I talked through another two rounds.

It was midnight when we finally left the pub, stumbling out onto the street, still pulling on our jackets. My breath was white and heavy in the October chill. Oliver made a grab at my hand. He stuffed our two hands into the pocket of his jacket. I swooned. Or maybe it was the pint. Pints. Several pints.

“Where are you headed?” He asked, even after we had been walking for a few minutes. It suddenly occurred to me that we very well may have been strolling along in the completely wrong direction.

“Oh, damn.” I said, stopping and staring around for anything familiar to get my bearings. “I need the train back to Bolton.”

“Well I guess it’s good we’ve been walking toward the station.” He said, pivoting until he was standing in front of me, close enough that I could smell the Newcastle on his breath. “Honestly, where would you have ended up without me?”

“Wandering a strange city alone at night.” I murmured, hoping to god he was going to kiss me.

“Exactly.” He said, stepping away again like his lips hadn’t just been a tantalizing inch away from mine.

“So, Oliver.” I said conversationally, pretending the same.

“So, Milo.” He replied. “Milo, that’s such a funny name. Milo.”

“Thanks. Um. Anyway, I noticed there was no group of mates at the pub.” I said.

“No.” He chuckled. “I know.” He didn’t offer any explanation and I was okay with that.

We walked in silence for a minute. He still held my hand in his. I realized I hadn’t even gotten his number yet. I could see the train station at the end of the block. I was very quickly running out of time.

“You know, I had a lot of fun tonight.”

“Definitely.” He said, grinning. “Me too.”

“Well, okay. My train’s going to be here in five minutes,” I said, glancing at my watch. “Maybe I can give you my number? Or you can give me yours. Or email, or msn…” We had arrived on the train platform and stopped walking. Oliver was standing in front of me again, but closer than before. “Or something…” I said, my voice trailing off.

“What for?” He asked, the corner of his mouth twitching so slightly.

I blinked, confused. “Well, so that, I don’t know, maybe we can go out again some - ” I was cut off by his lips pressing into mine abruptly. I was a little caught off guard; it took me a minute to kiss him back. But I came to my senses and stepped into the kiss with shaky knees.

My train came and went while we stood there, kissing with beer lips and cold noses. I was completely unaffected, even after he stepped away.

“Now how am I going to get home?” I said dreamily. He put his forehead to mine.

“My train’s just pulling in.” He said, tugging my hand and leading me to the opposite side of the platform where, indeed, a silver snake of commuter cars was slowing to a stop. “Wouldn’t want to leave you out in the cold, now would I?”

Score one for Milo.