Strawberries Taste How Lips Do

I fell asleep on the plane which isn’t anything new. It got colder while I was in Pittsburgh, so I definitely don’t have the appropriate jacket, so I mulled about inside, appreciating the warmth before I had to brace the suddenly terrible winter we were having.

I was about to make my way to a cab when a horn blared, catching my attention. I turned my head, and -- oh, of course -- Lorelai’s car is right there. Thank god.

“I’ve never been happier to see this piece of shit,” I sighed, patting the hood of Lor’s beat up Honda.

“Take it back! We had to do a lot of encouragement to get here,” Lorelai pouts as she takes my bag, then hugs me hard.

“As much as I missed you, it’s cold as shit,” I laughed, shuffling us to the door. She threw my bag in the trunk and we started our ride back home.

It wasn’t soon after we pulled out of Midway that a Bill Kay commercial came on the radio, the cabin of the small car getting filled with Andrew’s voice. My hand immediately reached for the radio to change it, but Lorelai beat me to it, turning the radio up instead of off. She mocked the commercial the whole time it was on, but changed the radio as soon as it was over.

“There’s a special place in hell for you,” I mumbled, putting my feet up on the dashboard.

“As long as that special place in hell will allow me to help you get ready to get schwastey with Andrew Shaw, I’m fine with it,” Lorelai dismissed, waving her hand. I groaned and put my face in my hands.

“I’m not getting ‘schwastey’ with him. That’s not even a fucking word.”

“Whatever. You’re letting me braid your hair.”

“Fine.”

______________________________

“You should wear a dress!” Lorelai chimes from my bedroom, probably rummaging through my closet. I’m too busy throwing on some pretty basic makeup to humor her with clothing shenanigans.

“I already changed. I’m not changing again,” I called back to her. And I wasn’t. I was fine in my reddish baseball tee, skinny jeans, and converse. It was enough of a compromise to allow Lorelai to do my hair. I didn’t feel the need to impress him. He’s just person. Well, a person who plays pretty amazing hockey and makes more in a year than I will in a lifetime, but still a person.

“But you could wear a dress!”

“No, Lola. Not happening.”

“Fine.”

Soon after, she was really close to my head with a hot object and I was definitely not a fan of that. As Lorelai curled the ends of my hair that she had thrown into some fancy twisted braid thing, I was compulsively checking the time. It was 6:15, and it takes about 30 minutes to get to The Library from my apartment on the El. I was refreshing transit stop like it was my job. I hated being late.

“Get the ‘I’m glued to my phone’ out of your system now, I guess,” Lorelai shrugged, flipping the curling rod off.

“I have to leave in five minutes if I want to be on time,” I muttered, force closing my open apps before locking my screen.

“Hey,” she started, actually sensing that I was a lot more nervous than she realized. “It’s gonna be fine.”

After final fussing was dealt with and my hair was adhering to Lola’s standards, I pushed her out the door with the promise of relaying everything to her later.

And then my bus was late. A whole three minutes late which means make or break for making the train I needed to take. I needed to calm down approximately thirty seconds ago, so I called my sister Rory.

She answered on the first ring with a cheery “Buddy the elf, what’s your favorite color?” and I was almost a little calmer at that.

“I need you to tell me that I’m not going to be late for my date with a Chicago Blackhawk,” I spouted off quietly, tapping my bus pass against the receiver.

“You’re not going to be late for your date with a Chicago Blackhawk, which I am not going to react to because you seem freaked out and I’m feeling gracious at the moment,” Rory said calmly. I think I could hear my nephew Riley demolishing a block tower in the background, shortly followed by Rory’s husband going “Boom!”

“Can you put Riley on the phone?” Riley was only three, but he could hold a pretty decent conversation.

“Sure thing, hon. Riley! Auntie Max is on the phone!” Rory said softly, followed by what sounded like tiny footsteps.

“Auntie Max!” He yelled into the phone. “I petted a puppy today!”

“That’s great buddy!” I cooed back to him. “What else did you do?”

Riley talked about absolutely everything and nothing all at once until I got to the train station and had to hang up. That definitely helped, and even though I was going to end up being a couple minutes late, I was less freaked out about it.

The Library has been been a favorite of mine, especially through my final semester at school. The red cushions and the books lining the wall and the dim lighting made it feel like more of a medieval study room than anything else. So that’s what I used it for.

I was expecting Andrew there, but not sitting in my spot. Sounds kind of pathetic that I have a spot at a bar, but it was my spot. The smile I was met with was almost worth it, but I couldn’t resist getting on him for it anyway. He stood and I’ll be damned if I didn’t lose the faint joking-anger right there. He was wearing a light blue button up shirt with the sleeves pushed up, black jeans, and this grey snapback with these chevrons on it. He takes it off as soon as he sees me, running a hand through his hair.

“Hey,” he says, smiling but really smirking and oh god he’s so attractive. He takes my hand and kisses it and I can feel my face turning red. Oh boy.

“You’re in my spot,” I word vomit, smiling, reluctantly taking my hand from his and tucking a stray hair behind my ear. I sat on the other side of the booth, shrugging my coat off and laying it on top of his.

“Your spot?” Andrew asks, raising an eyebrow before sliding into his own seat. I raise mine in response and smile just as one of the bartenders -- conveniently my former college roommate, Alex -- comes over and hands me my usual starter drink, an Ommegang Belgian Whit beer.

“My spot,” I said, raising my bottle in mock cheers.

“Anything for you, mystery man in Max’s spot?” Alex asks Andrew. He chuckles softly before requesting the same thing I have.

As soon as Alex disappeared behind the bar, Andrew asked how I was a regular here.

“Well, that’s Alex. She landed a job here when we were roommates and I hated that she was gone, so I’d tag along and study while she worked,” I explained, nodding thanks to Alex as she dropped off Andrew’s bottle.

“Explaining the spot,” Andrew nodded, taking a drink from his bottle. He made an approving face as he set his bottle back down, picking at the label.

“Explaining the spot,” I repeated. “Not because I’m an alcoholic,” I added, which he laughed lightly at.

“Someone who’s as put together as you could never be an alcoholic,” he said, tearing a piece of the paper off of the bottle. I ducked my head a little, smiling before taking a sip of my beer.

“So how was your flight?” I asked after a brief but heavy pause.

“Yeah, it was good,” he answered quickly. “Saader and Steeger couldn’t keep their mouths shut, but other than that it was pretty smooth.”

And just when I thought that it had settled in my head that I was on a date with a professional hockey player, it came right back up.

“Right. Saader and Steeger,” I laughed a bit before raising my bottle to my lips, taking a long pull. Andrew looked like he was about to explain the nicknames but I quickly said “Brandon Saad and Kris Versteeg. I just find it hard to believe they were the ones who couldn’t shut up.”

He laughed a short, almost bark-like laugh before shaking his head. “Callin’ me a bluffer, Fletcher?”

“Callin’ your story a little bit fuzzy around the edges, Shaw,” I retorted, smiles forming at the edges of both of our mouths. This was easier than I thought it would be.

“So what were you in Pittsburgh for?” He asked, face calm and attentive, even when I started rambling about my job.

I felt like I was talking for hours, but Andrew never seemed less interested in what I was saying. He asked questions, made comments, even humored me with laughing at the retellings of dumb stories. It was light hearted and easy and fun. Conversation flowed easily, going everywhere from my work with the University, to stories from the several teams Andrew played on as a kid.

It was nearing 9 o’clock now, and we were both a beer and a half and a basket of french fries down. We were both wrapped up in our conversation that we didn’t even notice that Alex came over, slipping the leather check-binder onto our table. I finished the last of my beer, setting the empty bottle near the back of the table before reaching into my coat for my wallet. I slipped my credit card into the plastic slot and let Alex take the binder away before Andrew could question it.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Andrew said, pulling his coat from under mine and slipping it on, downing the last of his beer.

“You didn’t have to pay my replacement fee,” I quipped, pulling my own coat on. “Sorry. The Blackhawks didn’t have to pay my replacement fee.”

“So I may have pulled a few strings, sue me,” he laughed, raising his hands in mock defense.

“No lawyers needed,” I said tucking my wallet into my coat pocket. “But you are paying for ice cream.”

“Deal,” he said, and we waved to Alex on our way out.