Poor British Boy

The boy from England. The soccer player who made me laugh and kept me on my toes. Our first date ended at my doorstep after a night of conversation and European music. The chill in the air caused me to tuck my hands into the pockets of my Patagonia jacket as he walked me to the door. My fingers felt a small object, much like a lipstick tube. Alas, it was not lipstick; in my pocket sat a small can of pepper spray. A giggle escaped my glossed lips and the soccer player's blue eyes looked inquisitively into mine.

"I have a can of pepper spray in my pocket," I exclaimed.

His toned body became rigid. He awkwardly took a step back from me and stuck his hands into the pockets of his jeans. "Oh... er... alright then," he said in a thick British accent. "It was a lovely evening. May I see you again?"

I agreed that I would enjoy that then said goodnight and walked through the doorway and up to my room.

I had succeeded in scaring the man away...

Or so I thought.

A week later, I drove two hours south to see him. We met at Peet's Coffee. When I arrived, he was sitting on the patio, talking on the phone. He barely acknowledged me as I walked up, just gave me a nod as if we were dear friends who met up for coffee daily. Without a word spoken between us, I walked inside and ordered a cappuccino. When at last I returned, the man was still sitting, still speaking to the person on the other side of the line.

Ten minutes passed before we finally said hello. I played with the hem of my dress while he finished his conversation. Another ten minutes passed and it was time for me to return home. A very quick visit, one which left me wondering why I had driven so far just for a cup of mediocre coffee.

Another week passed and his job had taken him back to England for a few months.

A car hit me, as you know, and I moved up to Oregon. Soon after my arrival, a bouquet of flowers arrived at my doorstep. The card was signed by him. What had I done to captivate this man?

He texted. He called. I ignored, but was flattered. Finally, one evening as I returned home from a wedding, wishing I, too, could find the man of my dreams, I made a terrible mistake. I texted him back.

His reply was immediate. He wanted to see me. When could he see me? He would fly to Oregon. Would that be alright?

I gave my consent.

After a three hour flight followed by a four hour drive, a rented Sedan with a British athlete inside pulled into my driveway. I walked outside, pearls around my neck, a playful dress blowing in the breeze. My dirty blonde hair was pinned back and I was wearing make-up, a very rare occurrence. The sun shone upon his strawberry blonde locks as he stepped out of the car. A smile spread across his face. His pace was slow as he walked up my steps to the front door in his twill pants and collared white shirt. He looked like he had walked off of a golf course in the 1950's. My parents waited inside and introductions were exchanged.

Shortly after his arrival, we departed the house and made our way to the restaurant. Black Butte Ranch: He had chosen well. A private golf course twenty miles out of town with a beautiful view of the Cascade Mountain Range.

"Parents on a third date? I haven't even met your friends," he commented. I could barely make out his words from his thick accent and slurred speech.

I asked him questions; he responded. I never knew what he was saying because his accent had gotten thicker, so instead of expanding on the current conversation, I continuously was forced to come up with new topics on which to speak. A familiar band played through the car speakers. "Do you recognize this song," he asked. "It's by The Streets. I know you like them." Ah, yes, the band I had mentioned enjoying on our first date. He had remembered.

Up, up, up the restaurant stairs we walked. My boot hit violently against the wooden steps. My Italian flat softly tried to make up for the noise. When we reached the top, I was thankful I had not tripped, but knew my journey was not done. We still had two more flights of steps before reaching our table. A table for four with only two place settings. The settings were next to one another instead of across. Thinking that was strange to sit next to someone and not across from him, I took the seat with no setting. This caused a commotion with him trying to sit next to me then demanding I switch seats to one of the places with a setting. I obliged, though I did not want to do so.

More words were spoken, though I cannot tell you what he said. If I had understood any of it, I would tell you, of course.

When the plates were cleared, he asked me a question.

"Is there a bathroom?"

"Oh yes," my voice came out loud. "It's just up those stairs then down the other stairs."

"Shall we go then?"

Odd. So very odd. Why would he want me to join him?

"I suppose it's on our way out," I noted.

We stood and walked toward the stairs, he put his hand out behind him, as if offering to take my purse.

"Are you trying to take my purse," I asked, shocked by the offer, if that's what it was.

"No," he said. "Your hand."

"What? Do you want to take my purse?"

"No." Patience must be one of his virtues. "Your hand."

"Oh, I see," I allowed our fingers to intertwine. It felt awkward and forced, especially while my other hand was clinging to the banister to steady my body up the steps.

Down the next flight of steps we walked. The bathroom door awaited us. "There it is," I pointed.

He turned his body to face mine. I let go of his hand. He stared at me, his face lacking any form of expression.

"I think I will go, too," my voice broke the silence.

"I asked if there was a bar here," he said, flatly.

That made more sense. I laughed and we climbed three flights of stairs to the bar, boot knocking on the wood.

Remembering my drink of choice, he ordered two whiskeys. Neither were touched. The sun set across the lake, behind the mountains. A setting that should have been romantic, wasted on a girl who was obviously uninterested.

When the bar closed, we went back down the steps. My boot caught on the ridge and I fumbled to release myself from its grip. After a long walk back to the car and a longer drive back to my parents' house, he parked the car and turned his head to look at me. "Well then, Miss Francis, may I kiss you," he asked.

"I gave up kissing for the year, didn't I tell you that?" I asked. "I could have sworn we have talked about this."

"No," he seemed stunned. "Are you joking me?" His British accent would be cute if I was in love.

"No," I laughed. "I have definitely told you this! I even wrote a blog about it."

"We have not talked about this. You are serious?" He asked.

"Absolutely," I confirmed. "I am so sorry."

"Well then," he paused. "May I walk you to your door?"

To my front door we walked. He hugged me goodnight. "May I see you tomorrow," he asked.

"I thought you had to drive back to Portland." My keys were in one hand, ready to open the barrier that would soon be between us.

"I postponed my flight so I might spend more time with you," he said. Oh, if only I was in love.

"We shall see. Tomorrow is a very busy day," I admitted. It was not a lie.

"Alright then," he took a step backwards. "Have a lovely evening."

"Thank you for dinner." I unlocked the door and stepped inside. My eyes watched as he walked down the front steps and down the driveway.

Poor British boy.