Bananapants: A Bonkers Romantic Comedy

“Normality is a paved road: It’s comfortable to walk, but no flowers grow on it.”

― Vincent van Gogh, Attributed; The Van Gogh Museum, Amsterdam

“So?” Ava slid her hand from my shoulder to the back of my head, her nails lightly scratching the short hair at my neck.

We were in my rental car. After her drunken confession, I’d left money on the bar for our drinks and dragged her out. I would take her to her parents’ house to sleep it off. But first I had to get her there without losing my mind.

“Des?” Her fingers stopped moving.

I pretended to be entirely focused on the road. I was so focused. The most focused.

Her fingers shifted higher and grabbed my hair. “Des!”

“Ava! Don’t do that. I’m driving.” I’ve never worked so hard to sound irritated. Ava pulling my hair hadn’t been on my list of kinks, but it was now.

She released me, her fingertips sliding low on my neck again. “Answer the question.”

“What was the question?” I flipped on my blinker. We were three minutes away. Five, tops.

“You heard me. So?”

I shifted in the driver’s seat, unable to get comfortable, for obvious reasons. “So, what?”

“You and me, whadya think?”

Play it cool. Play it cool. Be cool.

My eyes on the road, I hedged, “What do I think?”

“There’s not a chance that anything will ever happen between us . . . ?”

My hand on the steering wheel spasmed. “Are you asking me, or are you telling me?”

“I’m not sure. Because, if I were sure, I’d ask you a favor.”

I didn’t know what to focus on first: she wasn’t sure if anything would ever happen between us, or that depending on whether or not anything would ever happen, she had a favor related to something happening—or not happening—between us.

Before I could stop myself, I asked, “What’s the favor?” Then I cringed because I was a bad person. I didn’t wish I could take the words back. I wanted to know.

Wait. Wait until she’s sober. Don’t have this conversation now.

“Actually, Ava. Let’s be quiet until⁠—”

She leaned over the center console and licked my ear, whispering, “I want you to be my first.”

Air whooshed from my lungs. A spike of heat radiated to each nerve ending. Every muscle in my body tensed, which is probably why my mouth kept asking questions without my brain’s permission. “Your first?”

“I think I’ve always wanted you to be my first,” she whispered hotly, one hand still at my neck, the other now on my thigh.

Another shock passed through me and I pressed the crown of my head against the headrest. “Ava⁠—”

“My first meaning, being my first sexual partner, of course,” she said drunkenly, making me wonder if I were also drunk. Or dreaming.

I shouldn’t be driving if I’m drunk. Am I drunk? I’d only been drunk once. I don’t feel drunk. I wasn’t drunk.

GET IT TOGETHER, RAZ!

But there was no way I’d heard her right. I was probably dreaming. This seemed like something I would dream.

Mercifully, Ava pushed herself away and sat back in her seat. I glanced at her to make sure she was okay and her seat belt was still on.

Her eyes not quite focusing, she said, “Remember what we promised on our birthday? When we were kids?”

I knew exactly to what she was referring. Ava and I were born within hours of each other on Labor Day weekend, in the same hospital, on the same floor. On our tenth birthday, we’d promised to marry each other if we were still single at thirty. This promise had been initiated by Ava, her reasoning being mostly to save on rent and get the tax benefits associated with the married-filing-jointly status. When we were thirteen, she’d reminded me of the promise and pointed out the added benefits of never being lonely and marriage to one’s best friend.

But neither of those conversations had mentioned sex, obviously. And we weren’t anywhere near thirty yet. We still had over four years until the promise kicked in. Not that I was planning to make her marry me in four years, but I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t fondly recalled the promise every year on my birthday.

“Have sex with me!” she said suddenly, grabbing my arm and shaking it.

“Ava! I’m trying to drive.”

“Oh! Sorry.” She yanked her hand back. “Sorry, sorry. It’s just, I’m very, very serious about this. I think I’ve never had sex with anyone because I want my first time to be with you.”

Jesus Christ.

I rubbed my forehead and shifted in the seat again, reminding myself not to speed. But I had to get her out of this car as soon as possible. I felt like I was going to die, like my heart was about to explode, and it wasn’t a panic attack. It wasn’t mania. It was something else and I wasn’t prepared to deal with it.

“You’re the only person I’ve ever wanted this way,” she went on, rolling her body to face forward, a smile in her voice. “I think I’m broken or something. But every guy I’ve dated, it’s like I can’t look at him without asking myself, ‘Is this the guy I’m really going to lose my virginity to?’ And invariably he does something like sneezes without covering his mouth, or only leaves a five-percent tip for a waitress. I don’t want to have sex with someone who only tips five percent. I’m not built that way.”

“That . . . seems . . . reasonable.”

“I want my first time to be meaningful,” she said wistfully. “With someone I have real feelings for, you know?”

Her words landed right in the center of my chest, glorious water on parched earth, and this feeling was dangerous.

So, I reminded myself she was drunk. She might not mean any of this, but she’d likely remember it tomorrow. And if she remembered it, she’d be embarrassed. Maybe so embarrassed, she’d avoid me. She’d stop talking to me. Then she’d never give me a chance to⁠—

“Please, Ava. Stop talking.” I groaned, attempting to interrupt my racing thoughts by reading the license plate of the car in front of me. Then reading it backward.

“But I want to tell you.”

“Tell me tomorrow, when you’re sober. Please.” I flipped on my blinker again, taking the corner slowly. This was the last turn. Her parents’ house was just ahead.

“But I might not be brave enough then.”

“You are so brave. You’re the bravest person I know. I’m sure you’ll be brave tomorrow. Please. Tell me everything tomorrow. Okay?”

She leaned over the console again, her nose sliding along my earlobe. “Why are you so sexy when you say please?”

“Oh, look! We’re here.” THANK GOD.

Putting the car in park, I twisted at the waist and placed my hands on her shoulders, gently guiding her back to her own seat.

“Let me come around. I’ll help you to the door,” I said on a rush, reaching for my seat belt.

Before my fumbling fingers could unlatch it, she’d unclicked hers and launched herself over the center console, straddling my lap, one of her knees knocking my hands out of the way and obscuring the seat belt latch. Apparently, her drunk reflexes were faster than my sober ones.

Pushing my head back, I squeezed my eyes shut and lifted my hands up. Don’t touch her.

“Ava—”

“Just listen for a minute.” Her palms came to rest on my shoulders, a light touch. “Listen to me. I need to tell you something.”

“Please. Please tell me tomorrow.” If she kissed me, I’d kiss her back, and then I’d regret it for the rest of my life. Please. God. I am not your strongest soldier.

“Tomorrow will be too late.” Her bottom settled back, making me wonder if she was trying to give me space, and then the horn honked briefly, causing her to squeak and jump and my eyes to fly open. “Oh! Sorry. Sorry.”

Bracing herself against my shoulders, she held herself back, her arms straight, her torso bowing away from me. She was trying to give me space while also holding me hostage.

“Listen,” she said on a loud whisper, eyes wide, serious, and bleary. “I’ll make it quick.”

“Then you’ll get off my lap?” The question was a rasp and I couldn’t swallow. She was so beautiful. Close up like this, it was like fighting against gravity.

Ava nodded. “If you’re going to reject me, just leave me a phone message or text or something in the morning and reject me that way. I don’t want to see or talk to you again if you reject me. Don’t keep showing up like tonight and getting my hopes up. That’s mean and it hurts.”

Ugh.

My hands spasmed again, instinctively reaching for her, but I pulled them back just in time. Unable to speak, I nodded, silently promising I would never do anything to hurt her again. And I’d spend the rest of my life making up for hurting her. Even if she ultimately didn’t want me, I’d still find a way to make it up to her.

Her gaze seemed to sharpen as she went on. “But if you want to do this, come see me first thing tomorrow, okay? And I’ll be embarrassed, but don’t let me take anything back, okay? And then, if you do agree, we have to do the deed immediately. Tomorrow. Right away. Do you understand?”

I gaped at her, eventually choking out, “I don’t understand. Why immediately?”

Ava’s shoulders sagged and she waved a finger between us. “Because you don’t know me anymore. I’m a coward now.” She nodded firmly and several times at this assertion. “I’ll talk—talk myself out of it. If you give me any time, any time at all, I talk myself out of everything good and fun if it carries any risk of embarrassment or regret. But—guess what!” Her finger stopped waving and pointed at my face. “Life is embarrassing! I almost died on Friday and it—it made me realize, I’ve been talking myself out of—out of life!” Her chin wobbled, her eyes filling with sudden tears.

Surrendering to instinct in the face of her sadness, I pulled her forward and wrapped her in my arms, hugging her close as she sobbed against my shoulder.

“Promise me, Des. Promise me.” She turned her face to my neck, smearing tears against my skin.

“Shhh.” I squeezed her tighter. I hated her tears. They made me feel so helpless.

Her arms wrapped around mine from beneath, her fingers lifting to dig into the back of my shoulders like she was holding on for dear life. “Promise me you won’t let me talk myself out of this tomorrow. I’ll do it, I’ll try to stall and delay, and then I’ll chicken out and regret it! I’ll regret it and I’ll hate myself for being a coward.”

I ignored how her knee pressed near the stitches just above my hip and how my upper arm ached, the stitches there pulling. She clung to me. I could sew myself back together. I’d spent the last ten years taking the time to teach myself how. I was an expert.

Ava needed me in this moment. And from now on, I would be there for her no matter what, no matter when.

After she made it inside the house safely tonight, I’d call my sister and come up with a plan. If Ava woke up embarrassed tomorrow, I wouldn’t let her avoid me. I’d figure out a way to embarrass myself so we’d be even and she wouldn’t feel at a disadvantage. I would be vulnerable with her. I’d be honest. She’d asked a favor, shared a secret? I would ask a favor, share a secret. We’d make a deal. Equal terms. Equal benefits. Whatever allowed her to feel comfortable enough to let me do this, I was willing to do.

Ava wanted me to be her first. I wanted to be her forever. I would put her wants ahead of mine. Not because I owed her, but because I wanted to.

I’d just finished making this silent vow and Ava’s tears had just started to recede when a knock on my window startled us both.

Ava flinched back, which made the horn honk again, which made her squeak and flail. I reached forward and caught her, holding her firmly by the shoulders as I turned to face our intruder. My stomach dropped.

Ava’s mom, ex-CIA, badass, and one of the people I respected and yet avoided most in this world, stood just outside the driver’s side window, staring at us with a small, enigmatic smile.

“Hey, kids,” she said, her eyes slowly sliding to Ava and then back to me. “A neighbor called and said a suspicious car was parked outside our house. Are you two almost finished? Or do you need a few more minutes?”

Once the shock wore off, I scrambled for the door handle. I could not afford Mrs. Archer disliking me. That was not an option. Ava respected her mother too much, and so did I. I wanted—no, I needed—to make a good impression.

But before I could actually open the door, Greg’s voice called from somewhere behind Ava’s mom, “I vote give them a few more minutes. Maybe we’ll finally get a grandchild!”

After a few moments of extreme awkwardness, during which we both stood from the car, I began counting breaths and taking note of every source of light in the neighborhood, and Greg moved to help Ava. He supported her weight while I handed over the plastic bag I’d brought to the bar. It was full of supplies for taking care of Ava’s foot. He thanked me, winked at me, and then departed with his daughter, leaving me alone with Mrs. Archer.

Arms crossed, she looked at me openly, her gaze steady, her entire body eerily still. Mrs. Archer used to be a professional gymnast, almost made it to the Olympics before being diagnosed with a rare form of cancer. She’d undergone multiple brain surgeries, chemo, radiation, and then went on to study engineering, getting her master’s while becoming a black belt in basically every martial art possible. And she taught herself how to knit.

She was a five-foot-nothing package of lethal possibility. Even at her age, she was so fast and nimble, she could likely drop me before my brain registered her first move.

So I bowed. “Sensei.”

“Ha!” She laughed, but didn’t smile. “Desmond, you don’t need to call me that anymore.”

I thought about bowing again as I said, “Mrs. Archer.”

“Des.” Her expression turned flat. “Call me Fiona.”

“Okay.” Don’t bow.

Mrs. Arch—uh, Fiona stood between me and the house behind her while I hovered near the car, trying to figure out what to say that might launch me out of this inadvertent hole I’d dug myself into. Trying to explain the situation would make me appear weak. Plus, she hadn’t asked any questions since I’d stepped out of the car. She simply looked at me.

I looked back, bracing myself for whatever she had in mind, and praying it wouldn’t be a conversation about how I wasn’t good enough for her beloved daughter. I respected Mrs. Archer, but she needed to give me a chance first. Everyone deserves a chance.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” she asked, sounding curious.

Because I’m fairly certain you can still kick my ass and I’m here with your drunk daughter.

“Like what?” I asked, holding still.

“Like you expect me to yell at you or beat you up.”

I pointed out the obvious. “Ava is drunk.”

“Is that your fault?”

Her question required careful consideration. It felt like a trick question. If I said no, then I’d look like an asshole who didn’t take responsibility. If I said yes, I’d look like an asshole who got her daughter drunk.

I decided on, “Maybe.”

“Oh?” Fiona’s lips twitched. “You poured the drinks down her throat?”

“No.”

“Then it’s not your fault. You can stop looking so scared. I’m not mad at you.”

I didn’t relax, but I did say, “Okay.”

Something passed behind her eyes, concern or hesitation, and I braced myself. This was where she’d say something like, You know we really like you but we have concerns about someone like you being with Ava.

Instead, she said, “It’s so good to see you, Desmond.”

Again, I paused to consider her words before responding. “Thank you, Mrs. Ar—uh, Fiona.”

Her head dipped slightly to the side, her gaze moving over me in plain assessment. “You know, no pressure, but anytime you want to come visit us, you are more than welcome.”

“Thank you.”

“And anytime you want to take Ava out, for any reason, you should.”

“O-kay.” Now I allowed myself to inspect my former sensei. Her words were unexpected and therefore confusing.

She hadn’t participated in the absurdity at the barbecue, finding reasons to put Ava and me together and then leaving us alone. Ava’s mom was more circumspect and too subtle for that, but it had also led me to assume she didn’t approve of her husband’s antics or his intentions.

“And if, at any time—and I do mean any time—you need my blessing for anything Ava related, please know that you always, always have it.”

I held perfectly still. “Pardon me?”

She uncrossed her arms. “I want to be clear about this, forgive my bluntness. If you ever hesitated acting on feelings where Ava is concerned because you worried that we—her family—didn’t think you were good enough for her, or worthy of her, or wouldn’t treat her right, or we would see your chronic illness as a burden, those are definitely not thoughts you should have.”

Those were exactly the kinds of thoughts I’d had.

I couldn’t speak, so I swallowed instead. Her bluntness both did and didn’t surprise me. She hadn’t participated in the absurdity at the barbecue, likely because she’d viewed it as passive-aggressive and childish. Subtlety and gently nudging people in the right direction were more her style.

But sometimes, like now, Ava’s mom went straight for the jugular.

“I know it’s popular and considered positive in some parts of society to talk about chronic health conditions like they’re superpowers. I understand why that is, and I don’t really have an opinion one way or the other about it. But I’m not going to do that. I don’t think you’ve ever thought of your bipolar or ADHD as meaning you also have a superpower, even though they give you unique, superpower-like abilities sometimes.”

I exhaled a light laugh that reeked of bitterness, responding without thinking. “Oh yeah?”

There existed people with my disorders who’d been able to put a positive spin on them, who’d found traits within themselves related to bipolar or ADHD they felt grateful for. Good for them. That wasn’t me.

I hated it when a person told me bipolar gave me superpowers, when they tried to turn it into something valuable, something I should be proud of, or something I’d overcome. It felt incredibly patronizing, like being patted on the head.

To me, it was like in the movie Life of Brian, when all those guys are being crucified and they sing “Always Look on the Bright Side of Life.”

“Yeah.” She nodded firmly, her features striking me as stark, earnest. “You are an exceptional human.”

Honesty and realism compelled me to say, “Pardon me for saying so, Fiona, but you may have known me as a kid, but you don’t really know me now. Not anymore. I could be a complete dirtbag.”

Her eyes, so much like Ava’s, seemed to sparkle as she smiled. “Yeah, I don’t think so. Your mom tells me how you’re doing, what you’ve been up to. You visit your grandpa Eugene every month and play chess with him. You also visit your other grandparents regularly and read books to your grandpa Desmond because his eyesight is going. Right now, you’re trying to help a good friend fix a big problem. I know that’s why you’re in Chicago, but obviously I don’t know the details.”

My lips parted in surprise.

She wasn’t finished. “Your mom is so proud of you. So proud. She talks about you like you’re the only star in the sky. I know you are one of the kindest, sweetest, most thoughtful, talented, funny, brilliant people I’ve ever had the honor of knowing, and you always have been. And I also know you work hard, every single day, just to be here.”

Blinking back the gathering moisture behind my eyes, I glanced over her head. It had been a rough few days. My injuries were still fresh. I’d survived another shouting match with my dad. I should’ve been focusing on how to get the contract from the Cayman property, but I couldn’t stop stressing about how to convince Ava to give me a chance.

And now her mom was giving me their blessing without me having to ask? I couldn’t process it. It felt too good to be true. That’s why I was being like this. That’s why I was reacting this way to her words.

“So, again at the risk of being blunt . . .” she said, pausing until I looked at her again. When I did, she closed the distance between us, lifted her hand to my cheek, and cupped it tenderly. “Any family would be lucky to welcome you as a son-in-law. Never settle for anything or anyone less than what you deserve.”

Unable to help myself, even though I didn’t trust my voice, I asked quietly, “And you think that’s Ava?”

“That’s up to you two.” Fiona shrugged, her hand dropping. “I’m not trying to pressure you or Ava, not at all. In fact, it doesn’t need to be her or our family. This is about you. I—” She inhaled deeply and released it slowly. “Desmond, as someone who loves you and knows you, I want to make sure you hear these words, because I never want you to doubt your own value, or what you bring to the table. You are not less than. You are, and always have been, greater than.”