Bananapants: A Bonkers Romantic Comedy

Kommissar: “I’m sorry, I don’t speak loser. What did you say?”

Pieter: “She actually speaks eight languages, but loser is not one of them.”

— Pitch Perfect 2 (2015)

Ilet him hold my hand and we walked to the building. We held hands as I juggled the roses to type in my building code. We held hands walking up the stairs. We held hands as I fumbled for my keys. He ended up taking my keys and unlocking the door for me while I instructed him on which key opened which dead bolt.

The door finally open, he released my hand and walked in first. I realized at once what he was doing. Based on the lightness of his steps, how he approached and swept every room, and how his head pivoted on his neck, he was checking my apartment for intruders. Smiling at his silliness—but being careful not to let him see me because he seemed entirely serious about it—I busied myself by putting the roses in water.

When he finally strolled into the kitchen, he said, “All clear.”

I glanced at him over my shoulder. “Thank you. You’re very sweet.” He was so sweet.

Des’s hands slid into his pockets and he offered me another small, effortless smile. “You’re welcome. You are also very sweet.”

He was being so nice about this. It made me feel guilty. “Hey. Do you want some tea?” I was fairly certain Des couldn’t have caffeine. “I have many herbal teas to choose from. A veritable cornucopia.”

Overpronouncing the h in herbal and making my voice silly in hopes that he’d keep looking happy, my efforts paid off.

Des cooperated, his eyes so soft and warm, and then he nodded. “Please. Peppermint if you have it.”

He was too pure for this world. My heart twisted and I sighed, turning to the stove and preparing the tea. He was being so nice to me after I’d been so monstrous to him.

I made tea. He sat at the breakfast bar. We didn’t speak. I knew the next words out of my mouth needed to be an apology and it needed to be perfect. By the time the water boiled, I had a solid draft. And by the time I’d carried the two prepared mugs to the breakfast bar, taking the stool next to his and sitting, I was finally ready.

“Des—”

“How much do you remember?” he asked, cutting me off.

I blinked several times, staring at his unperturbed tone and profile, and admitted the truth. “Everything,” I replied. Overcome with mortification once more, I folded my arms on the bar top and let my head fall to them. My next words were likely muffled since I spoke them to the ground. Like a coward. “And I’m so, so sorry.”

“You’re sorry.”

“I am.” I nodded, my face still buried. “I swear I didn’t—I mean—” I heaved a big sigh, not knowing where to start with my apology now. I thought I was ready, but I wasn’t. I had too much to be sorry for. I couldn’t claim a standard apology, I needed to itemize it.

I sat up, squared my shoulders, and forced myself to meet Des’s stare head-on. “I am very sorry and here are the reasons why. First, I will not disclose your secret identity to anyone. If I made you nervous thinking that I would, or if you thought I was threatening you, I wasn’t. Regardless, I’m sorry. Second⁠—”

“I didn’t think you were threatening me.”

“Oh.” I exhaled, relieved. “Good. Because I was worried.”

His gaze became pointed and piercing. “Why were you worried? Be specific.”

“Specifically, I was worried you might assume I was threatening to expose your identity unless you—you know.” I inclined my head forward and mumbled these last two words meaningfully and from the side of my mouth. It was too mortifying to say it out loud.

“No. I don’t know.” He also leaned forward. “Like I said, be specific.”

I frowned at him and brought my folded arms from the counter to my chest, crossing them tighter. “Fine. I didn’t want you to think I would expose your identity if you didn’t agree to be my first. I have no plans to extort sex from you. Happy?”

“Not at all.” Des pushed his stool back from the breakfast bar, the legs scraping on the tile floor, and faced me fully. “Tell me more about your thing.”

“My thing?”

“Your situation. The favor you asked. Tell me more about that.” He propped one elbow on the bar top, his other hand on his knee. He seemed interested, but otherwise his gaze remained annoyingly unfathomable.

Was he making fun of me? Or did he want me to spell out my foolishness so that he could make fun of me?

Yeah. He’s making fun of me.

Tensing, my gaze dropped to my lap. “It doesn’t matter. I was drunk. And, uh, it doesn’t matter.”

“Ava.”

I bit my bottom lip, chewed on it, searching my apartment for something to focus on and noticing for the first time that the breakfast bar needed a good scrub down. There was a ring where I usually put my coffee cup.

“Ava.” Des reached over and tugged on my shirtsleeve, not letting it go when I shifted away. “Look at me, Ava.”

I lifted my eyes to his. “What?”

He’d leaned closer, ducked down a little, as though that might bring us to eye level. It didn’t. My height was mainly in my legs, whereas his was evenly proportioned. This meant his torso made him significantly taller than me when we were sitting.

Reading my mind, he said, “I’m not here to make fun of you. I won’t make fun of you. I promise.”

I scowled, hating that he could so easily perceive my thoughts and I had no idea what he was thinking. “Then why are you asking me about this?”

Still not releasing my sleeve, it felt like he leaned even closer, his shoulders rising and falling with a deep breath. “I’ve never had a girlfriend.”

I reared back an inch. “Uh—what?”

“I’ve never had a girlfriend.” Des eased backward.

“What? Never?” Now I leaned forward, inspecting his features for a lie. No lies detected.

“Never.” He released my sleeve, lifting his hand to scratch the back of his neck.

“Why the hell not?” The question burst forth before I could stop it.

Thankfully, he was in a talkative mood, and his expression turned self-deprecating. “I think you can guess why.”

“Because of your job.” I nodded at my own guess. He traveled a lot and—you know—was a criminal.

Des lifted a single eyebrow, his expression now assessing. “No. Not because of my job.”

“Then why not?”

“Because of my bipolar,” he said, like this was the obvious answer.

I wrinkled my nose, now leaning back in my stool to get a better look at him. “What? Why would that keep you from dating someone? I thought you were on meds. Don’t they work?”

“Yeah. But⁠—”

“And you’re doing your best to manage it, right?”

“Yes, but⁠—”

“So what’s the problem?”

It was his turn to heave a sigh. “Unfortunately, not everyone has your attitude about it or understands the disorder like you do.”

A hot spike of anger traveled from the base of my spine to my nose. “Are you serious? You’ve told these chicks about your bipolar and they what?” Suddenly, I was standing. “They dumped you?! Who are these succubus demon princesses? I will—I will⁠—”

UGH! I felt so angry. I didn’t want to say I’d punch them in the throat, but that’s what I wanted to do. What a bunch of ignorant, bigoted twatwaffles!

Des reached out and patted my shoulder, his amusement obvious. “Calm down, Rocky. No one dumped me. Like I said, I haven’t dated anyone. I’ve never been dumped.”

“Oh.” My anger deflated, leaving confusion. “Then what’s the deal?”

“Come on, Ava. Think about it.” Des breathed a chuckle, his gaze lowering to the countertop. He traced my coffee cup circle with his index finger. “How can I date someone? How is that fair to the other person?”

Pulling my stool toward me, I studied him. “I’m so confused. You think you can’t date someone because you have bipolar?”

He shrugged, not looking up.

“But, like . . .” As I reclaimed my stool, I pondered his words. No matter how I pondered them, they didn’t make sense. So I said, “No.”

His eyes cut to mine. “No?”

“No. That’s not a good reason. You’re just as mentally stable—if not more so—than most people on this planet. And physically, you’re likely in the top one percent. Unfortunately, intellectually, you’re a doofus, as we all know.” I couldn’t bring myself to call him brilliant. He was too brilliant. It was irritating.

“Why, thank you.” He smirked, likely because he knew he was too brilliant.

“And you have no morals.”

He lifted a finger, still smirking. “But I have ethics.”

“Yeah. You have ethics.” I mock-punched his shoulder. “Luckily for you, there are plenty of women looking for a bad boy himbo these days.”

He snorted a laugh like my comment had caught him off guard, his pretty eyes all aglow.

The sight of him like this made something lovely and warm twist in my stomach, but my curiosity was still piqued. “A stabilized chronic health condition is not a reason to never date, Des. Hell, living life is a chronic health condition. What’s the real reason?”

“Let’s say, that is my reason.” He wore his self-deprecating expression again. “Or it was for a long time. But now, let’s say I don’t date because I’ve never dated. Most people, you for example, they figure out how to date when they’re teenagers. I missed all that. I wouldn’t know how to start, how to ask someone out on a date, what to do for a date. What’s too much? What’s too little? Oversharing is a real temptation, but undersharing is just as risky.”

“Watch a rom-com, for Jiminy Cricket’s sake.” I sat on my stool again. “Figure it out. We’ve all had to figure it out. Don’t be afraid to be clumsy. It’ll come with time. Don’t be afraid to make mistakes.”

“But what if I really like someone and I mess up because I overshare? Or I undershare? You can’t come back from those kinds of mistakes.” His eyes were so wide. Like a puppy’s.

Ugh. Why is he so cute? His uncertainty and self-doubt shouldn’t have been so endearing, but they were. This conversation was not helping my crush.

Playing it cool, I said, “It’s all part of the process. No one is perfect right out of the gate, regardless of whether they have a chronic health condition or not. It’s all weirdos, trying to do their best, and looking like fools until they meet that person who makes them feel exceptional instead of foolish.”

“That’s it?” He turned his head to the side, as though to inspect me.

“That’s really it.” A thought occurred to me, and I studied him anew. “Huh. I can’t believe we’re both virgins.”

Des flinched back, his frown immediate. “No. I’ve slept with women. Lots of women.”

I also flinched back, his words making no sense. “What? How do you sleep with multiple women but never date anyone? Tell me how that happens. And why didn’t you date one of them?” I didn’t know why I suddenly felt like laughing and screaming at the same time.

“Fine.” He cleared his throat, his spine straightening and his air turning instructional. “As an example, I’ll be in a bar—usually at a hotel or whatever—and a woman approaches me. We talk. She asks me to come up. I do. We have sex. She not-so-subtly asks me to go. I do.” He shrugged, his hands lifting, palms up like whatcha gonna do?

I knew my face was scrunched, but I couldn’t help it. “Then why do you say yes? Why say yes when they ask you up if you know they’re a one-night stand? Haven’t you ever wanted more?”

“I say yes when I want to. I’ll say no when I don’t want to.” He shrugged again, like this was all very obvious. “I like sex. When it’s offered and I’m in the mood, why say no?” Then Des scratched his neck, his gaze seeming to grow guarded, cagey. “Does that . . . is that a problem for you?”

“No,” I said, following my gut instinct to say no, to reassure him.

“Ava. Be honest and take a moment to think about it. Would you ever want to be with someone like me who’s never dated but has slept with a lot of women?”

I swallowed. I stared at him. And I followed his instructions and thought about it. I sorta loathed that there existed women—apparently lots of women—who’d been with Des sexually. I hated that they’d kissed him and touched his body. I was jealous, and yet I realized this jealousy was irrational. He was an adult, doing adult things with other adults. And here I was, not doing adult things with other adults. Ostensibly, my lack of sexual experience might’ve been partially due to the fact that I’d never been able to move on from my feelings for him. Maybe it wasn’t the women I was jealous of. Maybe I was jealous that he’d moved on while I’d stayed still in this very specific way.

But I couldn’t say all that. Because I was a coward but also because he wasn’t asking me specifically about himself, he was asking me about “someone” like him.

Eventually, and like a good lawyer, I only answered the question asked. “I think I would be worried to be with a someone who had a lot of experience, that I wouldn’t measure up or be able to keep up in the bedroom department. I’d be worried about needing time, not going fast enough for them, being bad. At it.”

He seemed to consider my words before asking, “Other than that, would it bother you to be with someone like me?”

Like before, he didn’t seem to be referring to himself specifically, more like he was asking about people with many sexual partners in general. “Like how? Why?” I asked.

“Because they’ve slept around.”

“So?” I was missing something and I wished he’d point it out. “As long as they made safe choices and were honest with me about their expectations, why would I care?”

Des’s eyes moved over my face for a long moment, searching. Eventually, he gave me a small curve of his lips. “Okay. Fair enough,” he said, as though accepting my confusion as his answer. “As for your other question, yes. Yes. I want—I’d like—more. Not with any of them, but with someone else.”

Covering his hand with mine, I squeezed it.

He turned his fingers so that ours tangled and returned my squeeze. “Seems like we’re in the same boat,” he said.

“Yeah.” My gaze moved beyond him and I focused on nothing. It sucked. And it was nice to commiserate with someone in a similar situation. This is what I’d been missing in a boyfriend, this level of comfort and openness. I wished I could help him. I wished⁠—

WAIT!

Maybe I should do that? Maybe I could teach him how to pick up women?

I fought a wince but pushed through the discomfort. No matter how big my crush, I should suck it up and be his wingman. Rather than having him watch as someone approached me, it would probably be better if I guided his approach, gave him feedback after he tried to pick up a woman.

Okay, now I cringed, imagining the scenario. On second thought, I didn’t think I could do that. I couldn’t watch him hit on someone else. I wasn’t that strong and selfless. Sighing, feeling defeated, my attention returned to my friend.

Des was now looking at me through the corners of his eyes. “So, tell me, how does someone date—seriously date—a bunch of guys but never have sex?”

I tensed. Ah. Shit.

He grabbed my shirtsleeve, presumably to keep me in place this time. “Tell me. I shared with you, now you share with me. I know you’ve dated. My mom tells me every time you have a new boyfriend. I know you’ve dated at least two guys so seriously, your mom thought they might propose. Didn’t one of them actually propose?”

After a little tug-of-war, I successfully reclaimed my sleeve and covered my face with my hands. “It’s—because.”

“Because?”

Sucking in a deep breath through my nose, I admitted to myself he was right. He had shared, I should share. That was only fair. But, more than reciprocal sharing, I’d been the one who’d propositioned him while drunk last night. I should explain myself, at the very least. And then I should apologize again.

“Here’s the thing.” Letting my hands drop to my lap, I engaged in a wrestling match with my embarrassment while working to keep my tone mild and professional. I consoled myself by acknowledging that after this conversation, I would be able to write a book entitled How to Explain to Your Crush Why You’ve Never Had Sex with Anyone despite Several Long-Term Relationships and Not Perish from Mortification-Induced Heatstroke.

Des propped his elbow on the counter again, placing his chin in his hand. “I can’t recall ever being so curious about something in my entire life.”

“Then shut your stupid face and listen.”

He grinned, his eyes brightening more than I thought possible, and then he nodded.

Present and past blurred together for a split second. I swallowed around something thick and uncomfortable as a wave of nostalgia swept over me. I think he and I must’ve said, “Then shut your stupid face and listen” to each other at least one thousand times when we were kids and teens.

This felt so natural, talking to him. Good. Essential. Ugh. I missed this. I miss him. Maybe I didn’t have a crush on him. Maybe I simply missed him and these fluttery feelings in my chest and stomach were nostalgia?

Inspecting his features, the shape of his nose, his brilliant eyes—gateways to fuzzy-headed hypnosis—and the equal parts charming and irritating curve to his luscious lips, I dismissed the nostalgia theory. I’d had a crush before. This was a crush, but so much more. An exceptionally brutal, intense, lifelong crush.

I’d get over it. Eventually.

“Well?” he prompted when I took too long, his eyebrows pulling together. “Tell the truth.”

Taking a deep breath to center myself, I stared at his forehead instead of his mesmerizing eyes. “Fine. The thing is, as I’ve mentioned, I’ve never had sex, or done much else. It’s like, I’ve had boyfriends and I’ve enjoyed their company, but there was only one guy I actually enjoyed kissing.”

Des’s eyebrows shot high on his forehead. “Are you kidding me? One guy? One guy?”

“Yes. One guy.” Other than you.

His eyes darted from my head to my feet. “Are you—are you sure you don’t like women maybe?” His voice was halting, bracing.

“No. I don’t.” I heaved another sigh. “I’m attracted to men. I’m not attracted to women. After him, after Josh, I⁠—”

“Who’s Josh? Who’s this guy you enjoyed kissing? Why was he different?” Gone was playful Des. In his place, Doberman Prosecutor Desmond Sullivan emerged, asking the hard-hitting questions.

“I’m not sure why he was different. Maybe because we were already friends before we started anything? It’s the only thing I can think of.”

“Okay.” He shifted in his stool. “Tell me about this Josh.”

“He was a good friend in college. We met our freshman year and he had a girlfriend, but I wasn’t attracted to him or anything then.”

“You weren’t attracted to him?” Desmond’s eyes narrowed.

“No. Not at all, at first. He wasn’t—you know. He wasn’t super handsome or anything, not conventionally anyway. But he was funny and smart. So smart. And thoughtful. He was a good friend.”

“Got it. What happened?”

“He broke up with his girlfriend sophomore year. Eighteen months later, we started hanging out a lot the summer between junior and senior year. I developed a crush on him during the fall of my senior year. We didn’t date until the spring, and only for a little bit before he left for med school.” I gave myself a mental pat on the back for keeping the details to a minimum and providing such a succinct summary of events.

“How long did you date—give me precise dates—and how far did you go? And who initiated the physical stuff? You or him?”

Since this felt like a cross-examination and therefore well within my level of comfort, it didn’t occur to me to withhold any details. “Uh, we dated April until end of May, so six weeks?” I thought back to my time with Josh. “And he initiated it, mostly. It was all good, I was into it. I went the farthest with him than with anyone else. What’s fingering? Second base?”

“That’s one and two-thirds base, unless you reciprocated?”

I wanted to laugh. I didn’t. But I did ask, “One and two-thirds base? Is that your official ruling? What are you, a sex referee?”

Des’s fingertips tapped the countertop. “Stay focused.”

“Yeesh. Fine. I reciprocated a few times, and that was also nice. Everything with Josh was really nice.” It occurred to me that this should feel more awkward than it did. Earlier, I’d thought it would be mortifying. Yet, here we were, discussing our sex lives in excruciating detail. Why didn’t it feel weird? Why did it feel so comfortable when I’d been anticipating so much discomfort?

“Hmm.” Des rubbed his chin, studying me and giving me the sense his brilliant brain dedicated serious contemplation to my situation. “If it was so nice and he was so nice, why’d you break up?”

“He was going to med school. It’s not like he would have had a lot of time to date anyone, even if we lived in the same city. We decided to part as friends when he left.”

Something flickered behind Des’s eyes. “And since then? Anyone else?”

“I’ve dated a few guys. And yes, two were much more serious about me than I was about them, even though I was very honest that I wanted to take things slow and told them I wasn’t feeling it. Cole was the guy who proposed and even asked my dad for his permission—which my dad did not take well at all⁠—”

“Let me guess. Greg told this Cole person asking for a father’s permission was an outdated, sexist custom, and he would never agree to let his daughter marry someone who believed in an outdated, sexist custom.”

I laughed. Des was exactly right. “Yeah. Something like that.”

Des looked like he approved. My dad and Des had always gotten along well, which made sense to me. They both suffered from a dearth of morals but an abundance of ethics.

“Sorry.” Des lifted a hand. “Please continue. What happened with Cole?”

“He wanted to wait until marriage, so I thought we were a good fit. You know, taking it slow, getting to really know each other. But then suddenly he’s in love with me and wanting to get married right away. I wasn’t ready, and definitely not with Cole.”

“What was wrong with Cole? And please, please tell me his last name was either Miner or Minor.”

“Oh my God!” I barked a laugh and had to hold my stomach, unable to respond for a moment.

But he wasn’t finished. “For his birthday, did you get him a canary?”

“Stop!” My hand flailed out and I hit him on the leg.

He added, deadpan, “For his bathroom, of course.”

“No more! Stop. Please!” Doubling over, I laughed and laughed, my face hurting along with my sides.

Des watched me, his eyes seemingly absorbed in my reaction, like he wanted to document it. This was like old times. This, laughing like this with him. I loved it. I loved it so much.

After too long but not nearly long enough, during which he stared at me and drank his tea at intervals, I’d finally calmed down enough to respond to his real question. “Nothing. Nothing happened with Cole. He was also really smart, nice. Honestly, it would’ve been great if things with Cole had worked out, but I couldn’t force it, you know?”

What I didn’t say was that Cole never got my jokes and didn’t particularly enjoy old movies. Those two facts didn’t seem worth mentioning because so few people got my jokes or enjoyed old movies.

“Hmm,” Des said noncommittally. “Was Cole the last one? The last of your men?”

“I’ve had a few dates here and there. Nothing much. The thing is, if I don’t want to kiss them, there’s no second date. After I dated Josh and actually liked the kissing and whatnot, and then after I dated Cole and he asked me to marry him, I decided it was best that I don’t waste my time, or their time, dating someone who I’m not interested in kissing. Does that make sense?”

He nodded, like this was reasonable, and then said, “Do you want to kiss me?”

Caught, my mouth opened and closed a few times as I stared at him, not sure what to say. But since Des simply gazed back at me with those big, honest puppy dog eyes of his that I knew and loved dearly, his expression full of curiosity and completely lacking in judgment, I answered honestly.

“I do,” I said, feeling oddly relieved after the words were out. And since we were being honest, I added, “I think I’d like to do more than kiss you. Which is why I asked you to help me.”

For some reason, the admission didn’t cost me much this time. I didn’t feel at all embarrassed, but I did feel somewhat nervous.

“Why do you think you’d like it? With me.” He was still all neutral politeness and curiosity.

I contemplated what to tell him. Should I admit to my thoughts at the bar? Wanting his hands and mouth on my body? How I’d imagined it? How revolutionary of a moment that had been for me? Ultimately, I decided this would be too much information, even between old friends like us, and especially considering the nature of my drunk request.

So, I responded with, “I have my reasons.”