“Which problem would that be?” I assumed she meant Jackson James, but I couldn’t bring myself to say the words.
That guy . . . what a little shit. The more I thought about him approaching Jennifer while she was on a date with Billy, the more I wanted to step up my armadillo infestation plans. Or maybe just beat the tar out of him. Granted, her date with Billy had been fake, but Jackson was ignorant of that fact.
Consequently, he was a shit.
My jacket felt too hot, so I unzipped it and placed it on the counter, claiming a stool and leaning my forearms on the butcher block.
“I guess you’re right.” She nodded, obviously reading more into my question than my intent. “It’s not really a problem. It’s what I wanted, actually.”
I had to clear my throat past an unexpected tightness. “Going on a date with Jackson is what you wanted?”
Jennifer leaned her hip against the counter and shrugged. “Not necessarily Jackson, but I think he’ll do. I know my father approves of him. He comes from a really nice family and he’s always seemed like a gentleman.”
Despite taking off my jacket, my neck was still hot. I was quite suddenly and forcefully . . . irritated. I resolved to keep this irritation to myself, partially because I didn’t understand it and partially because Jennifer hadn’t earned it. The irritation simply was.
She didn’t notice my struggle, her eyes were on her teacup as she said, “I guess,” she started, sighed, and started again, “I guess I’m not sure it’s a good idea.”
My irritation eased enough at this statement for me to say, “You don’t have to go. If you don’t feel ready yet, or unprepared, just call it off.”
“No, I feel good about the date—prepared I mean—Billy gave me lots of tips.”
The irritation rose again, like a wave. “What kind of tips?”
“Things to talk about, and things not to talk about. He was really helpful, so thank you for arranging that.”
“No problem.” I would have to try drilling this information out of Billy later; thus far he’d been frustratingly tightlipped. “So why are you doubting whether you want to go on the date with Jackson?”
Jennifer eyes darted to mine, then away. She finally asked, “What if he wants to kiss me, Cletus?”
I responded with the truth before I could catch myself. “He’s definitely going to want to kiss you, Jenn.”
“That’s a problem.” Her eyes widened to their maximum diameter and she clasped her hands over the teacup.
“Why is that a problem, other than the obvious hardship of being forced to kiss Jackson James?”
She ignored the insult and answered the root of my question. “It’s a problem because I’m twenty-two and I don’t know how to do that.”
“Kiss?”
“Yep.”
I stared at her. Then my stare moved to her lips. “You’ve never been kissed?”
“Nope. Well, not really. Timothy King tried to kiss me once, but I didn’t want him to. He got his mouth on my chin before I was able to push him off.”
Note to self: maim Timothy King.
“And then there was that time I surprised Drew, but like I said, it was a lip-collision. Not a real kiss. It was so awful, I often wondered if I should send him a letter of apology.”
“No need for that.” I waved away her suggestion.
“I mean, I’m sure I could do it eventually. How hard can it be?”
I thought about her problem, because it was a problem. Once again, she’d caught me off guard. I knew she’d been sheltered, but clearly I had no idea how painstakingly her parents had been in isolating her.
The woman needed kissing.
But first, she needed to know about kissing.
“Well, academically speaking, it’s not difficult to kiss a person. Just like it’s not difficult to bake a cake. But it’s difficult to bake an excellent cake, right? Just so with kissing. The chances of you baking an excellent cake on your first try is—”
“Basically zero.”
“That’s true. But while I appreciate your realism, allow me to suggest we embrace optimism. Because kissing is more than just technique. It’s also about the chemistry you have with another person and his or her technique as well. So the difference between kissing and baking is that two people are involved, and that makes it both more and less complicated.”
“How is it more complicated?” She passed me my tea then took a sip of her own.
“If you had to bake with a partner, you’d have to rely on that partner and hope he or she was just as good as—or better than—you. Plus you hope the two of you have good chemistry. Plus, and I cannot stress this enough, that other person needs to keep a tidy kitchen.”
“Tidy kitchen?”
“Yes. If you’re after a life-long baking partner, avoid indiscriminate bakers. And if you take on a reformed, previously indiscriminate baker, make sure he’s had his kitchen thoroughly inspected by the health department.”
Her dark eyebrows arched over her violet eyes, which were shadowed with concern. “Then how is it less complicated?”
“If your partner and you have great chemistry, technique matters less.”
She thought about this for a stretch, sipping her tea and staring unseeingly at the counter between us. Then she sighed.
“Clearly I’m the weaker baker in this scenario. For all intents and purposes, in this analogy, I’m the baker who can’t make toast. Just being pragmatic here, I guess my worry is, I’ll meet someone with whom I have great chemistry and blunder the execution—that is, burn the toast.”
“But you teach people how to bake, right?”
“Yes.”
“So you just need to learn proper kissing technique. That’s all.” I shrugged, hopefully communicating that it was no big deal. “Once you feel confident in your technique, then you can see if the chemistry is there.”
“You make it sound like I can just check the classifieds for a kissing instructor. How do normal people do this? How do normal people learn how to kiss without frightening off good kissers?”
“Most people figure it out in high school. No one knows how to kiss in high school, so it’s all different variations of too wet and unpleasant. It’s a lot of trial and error, bad kisses, figuring out what works and what doesn’t.”
“See now, I missed all that . . .” She shook her head, clearly frustrated. “You know, I never wished I’d gone to high school until last year. When I was fourteen and my parents told me they were going to keep me at home and continue homeschooling me, I was relieved.”
“Why?”
“At the time I had three pen pals who were already in high school, and they made it sound like Dante’s sixth circle of hell.”
This description made me smile. “It can be.”
“But now, looking back, I wish I’d gone. I wish I’d experienced a more traditional high school experience, and all the torture that goes along with it. I wouldn’t be so stupid about stuff now. I feel like I’m constrained by my lack of experience.”
“I don’t think your assessment is quite right. In this case, in matters of interpersonal relationships, I don’t think it’s necessarily bad to be inexperienced, just like it’s not bad to be experienced.”
Her mouth was pressed in a dubious line. “I find that hard to believe.”
I grinned at her, because once again she looked cute. “It’s true. If you don’t mind another analogy, finding a mate is like playing an instrument. I might play the banjo for years, but then give it up to play the bassoon. Well, I don’t know how to play the bassoon, so it’s like starting all over again. Each instrument is like starting all over. No one has all the answers, no matter how much experience they have in their past.”
Jennifer set her cup down on the counter with a thump. “But, using your analogy, if you’ve played the banjo, at least you know how to read music. You know what the notes mean. I’m like a person who has never even heard a song, and suddenly wants to become a concert pianist.”
I was quiet, because she had a good point.
“What about you?” she asked, placing her hands on her hips.
“What about me?” I straightened from the counter, bracing for whatever unexpected question she was about to toss at me.
“What are you looking for? In your partner? What level of experience are you looking for?”
“Ideally, for efficiency sake . . .” I hesitated, because she was looking at me as though my answer held the key to her future success and was telling of men my age. I thought about lying, to make her feel better and bolster her confidence, but decided against it.
My preference for experience was revealing of most (what I considered normal) men my age or older; by normal I meant men without a daddy, superiority, or power complex. I didn’t know anyone my age or older who was looking to school a shy, blushing virgin unless that man was also a shy, blushing virgin. I had nothing against shy, blushing virgins. I just didn’t want to have sex with them.
Because sex with an inexperienced woman was decidedly vanilla. I didn’t much like vanilla, or missionary, or doing it with the lights off. I didn’t want a woman who was reticent about her body, who tried to hide it with sheets and darkness.