Parallel

accordingly.”
    If I learned anything in L.A., it’s that with the right accessories, you can go anywhere in jeans and a white V-neck. Tonight I add an oversized cardigan I bought on eBay and a pair of brown leather riding boots I found at Cinderella’s Attic in Guilford last weekend. Since my parallel self’s definition of “style” appears to have been limited to Gap jeans and tops from J. Crew (which, admittedly, aptly describes the contents of my own pre-Hollywood closet), I’ve had to do some wardrobe supplementing since I got here. Unfortunately, my bank account is quite a bit smaller than it was when I was in L.A., so I’m making do with what I can find secondhand.
    “You look great,” Michael says when he opens the door. “Cool boots.”
    “Thanks,” I say as I survey his attire. Track pants and a Yale Lacrosse T-shirt. And here I was worried about being underdressed. Is that a grease stain on his chest?
    “I was just about to change,” he tells me, and holds out the red plastic cup in his hands. It’s empty. “Can you get me a refill?” he calls, already halfway up the stairs. “Beer’s in the fridge.”
    “Uh, okay,” I call back. “Sure.”
    I turn the cup over in my hands. Not exactly how I thought the first thirty seconds of this date would go. Which, now that I’m here, doesn’t even feel like a date.
    By the time I reach the kitchen, I’m officially pissed off. “ Can you get me a refill? ” I mutter. “Seriously?” I grab the handle of the fridge and yank it open. Bottles on the door clang against one another, and it crosses my mind that I wouldn’t mind if they all broke.
    And then I see them. A bouquet of pink peonies spilling out of a trumpet-shaped beer stein. I reach for the bright yellow Post-it stuck to the front of the glass. For Abby.
    “The refill was just a ruse.”
    “Ah!” Startled, I jump at the sound of Michael’s voice and knock a family-sized bottle of Heinz off the refrigerator door. The flip top flies open when it hits the ground, squirting ketchup all over the linoleum. I look down at the ketchup, then up at Michael, who’s now dressed in khakis and a very wrinkled blue button-down that, despite the fact that it looks like it was retrieved from the bottom of his laundry pile, is definitely date appropriate. “You scared me,” I say sheepishly.
    “I noticed,” he replies, laughing as he bends to pick up the ketchup bottle. I grab a roll of paper towels off the counter to wipe up the mess. Clearly not standard procedure around here. The floor is disgusting, and wet with something that isn’t ketchup. Is that puke? I dab at the linoleum, trying not to gag, then toss the wad of paper towels toward the giant trash can next to the stove. It lands on the floor with a wet slap. Michael, meanwhile, is busy exchanging the Heinz bottle for two beers. “A drink before we go,” he explains, twisting the caps off and dropping them in a bucket next to the fridge.
    “Thanks,” I say, eyes on the paper towel heap, trying to decide if I’m obligated to pick it up. A puddle of what looks like pee is saturating its edges.
    “But we have to drink it fast,” Michael is saying. “We’re leaving here in five minutes.”
    No time to worry about nasty paper towel wads, then. Excellent. I gulp my beer.
    “So do you like the flowers?” he asks between sips. “After what we talked about yesterday, I wanted to surprise you.”
    Yesterday. The boat ride. The most romantic thing Michael and I have ever done, and I don’t remember it. I’m not sure what I could’ve said to prompt a surprise bouquet, but whatever it was, I’m glad I said it.
    “I love them,” I say. “Where’d you get peonies in New Haven?” I’ve been to the Stop & Shop near campus. Their flower selection is limited to carnations and roses, each with a healthy dose of baby’s breath.
    “The farmers’ market in Edgewood Park,” he says, then grins. “According to the guy I bought them from, they’re an aphrodisiac.”
    Heat floods my cheeks. Embarrassed that I’m embarrassed, I turn an even deeper shade of red.
    “So what else did you do today?” I ask, quickly changing the subject before my face catches fire.
    “Not a whole lot,” he replies. “Went to the gym. Watched some baseball. What about you?”
    “I quit the crew team,” I tell him, tasting the Thai noodles I had for dinner and wishing I’d brought gum. I take several more swigs of beer, hoping to drown out the