Charisma by Jeanne Ryan Page B

frame for support when we’re face-to-face. Another deep breath. “Um, c’mon in.” I take a step back. Okay, so far, so good. I haven’t spilled anything on him or fainted.
    He steps into the foyer and peeks inside. “Doesn’t your mom want to meet me or anything?”
    Wow, he really is old-school. How sweet. I scoop my bag from the end table and say, “She took my brother shopping. But I’ve left her a note with your description, social security number, and criminal background check.” Is this really me, speaking in full sentences and cracking a joke?
    His eyes widen for a sec before he breaks into a grin. “Well, I hope the meth lab incident doesn’t stop her from letting me take you out again.”
    I smile, my face tingling at the notion of “again.”
    On the car ride to my favorite ice-cream place, I maintain my side of the conversation without hyperventilating. Jack speaks more slowly and softly than usual, the way you’d do with a kitten, the way I had with Molly earlier. Maybe he’ll offer me a giant turtle ride next. Now there’s a yummy thought.
    Once we’ve bought our cones, we find a wrought iron bench in front of a tiny fountain where kids dodge streams of water shooting from the mouths of bronze faeries. Jack licks his cone slowly, savoring it. Watching him, I understand why eating ice cream in public is banned in certain countries.
    He says, “I like how you don’t pretend to be on a diet the way other girls do.”
    â€œHmm. You’re not implying anything, are you?”
    He looks horrified. “No, of course not! You’re, uh, perfect. Anyway, I’m not for hinting at stuff when I can just say what I mean.” That much seems true. His straightforward honesty is something I’ve always found refreshing, even when it’s a critique of something I’ve edited for
The Drizzle
.
    We perch on the bench, chatting while we enjoy the ice cream. When the cones are gone, we take advantage of the clear skies to stroll around the outdoor shopping area. Under a brightly striped awning, I point at a mannequin dressed in a safety-pinned-together jacket. “Okay, that doesn’t make sense, no matter how many
Vogue
spreads Evie foists on me.”
    Jack’s eyes twinkle. “A girl who loves dessert and hates fashion that tries too hard. Where have you been all my life?”
    My breath catches in my chest. Right here, I want to say, imagining us, like this. Even though I was convinced it would never be possible.
    At a park on the end of the walkway, a band has set up for a free concert. They launch into summer-happy tunes with an edge. We sway to the music and applaud some toddlers who’ve gone into full-on dance mode.
    With a happy sigh, I allow the music to float through my body, right down to my altered DNA. Ahh. My breathing and heartbeat flow in perfect harmony with the song. And then, for a brief moment, I have the strangest sensation, as if I’ve somehow merged with the crowd around me. It’s a warm, powerful feeling, utterly connected to the world. My eyes flash open. What’s going on? I thought Charisma would be more about sizzle and confidence than all this warm, fuzzy stuff.
    Taking a sharp breath, I mentally retreat to my normal wariness, with my psyche hovering just outside the group. Even so, the people around us don’t seem as distant and “other” as usual. Maybe Jack’s presence, not gene therapy, is having an effect on me.
    At the edge of the audience, a cameraman from a local news station, who must’ve lost a bet, shoots video of the crowd. His camera points my way, then seems to stall. My first instinct is to hide behind a woman with big hair, but for some reason I shrug off my self-consciousness and stare straight into the lens. After a few moments, the camera seems to nod before resuming its sweep of the audience.
    Jack leans toward me. “The