Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
Hazel
“ I thought since we played Twenty Questions for our first date, maybe, you’d want to play it again tonight. For our last date.”
Jeremiah sounds torn up about tonight being our last night as a couple, even if this was fake. If he’s not actually upset and I’m just hearing what I want to hear, well, I’m entitled to my delusions.
“That sounds like fun. I’m in.” Maybe, I can use the opportunity to find out which of our fellow teachers he’ll date next. Vanessa’s not the only one interested in him. I wonder how I can ask without asking.
“Do you want a tour of the place before we eat?” He gestures behind me to the hallway that presumably leads to the parts of the house not on display due to the open floorplan.
I must take too long thinking about it, because he shrugs and goes back to the stove.
The missed opportunity stings. One of many such chances I guess I can anticipate.
After tonight, the only thing I’ll have left is missed chances and memories.
It’s maudlin of me to obsess over that when there’s still time to enjoy his company, but it’s true.
“So which of us should go first?” I ask.
“Go where?” He looks confused.
“The game. You know, Twenty Questions? Who should ask the first question?”
“You just did. I’ll ask one now.” His answer is so quintessentially Jeremiah I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing.
“What was your favorite thing we did this month?” It’s not the question I anticipated. I give it some thought.
“Probably the farmer’s market. It was funny watching you try to explain why fried butter can’t really be a thing.
” I shouldn’t have found it so amusing, but the level of intensity when he’d argued with the vendor had been hilarious.
Who gets so outraged about silly fair food? Jeremiah Graley does, apparently.
For every bit of how absurd watching him debate with the little old man selling batter-dipped cubes of butter on sticks, this moment tops it. It’s adorable the way the tips of his ears have gone red and his cheeks pinked with embarrassment.
“Yes, well, I maintain my opinion that the atrocity is misnamed and should be disallowed. How the city justifies allowing the sale of cholesterol bombs on wooden dowels, at an event designed to promote fresh produce, is baffling,” he grumps.
“My turn!” I need to change the subject before his thundercloud expression prompts me to do something foolish. Like kiss away the frown or something equally reckless.
“Did you get everything you wanted out of our bargain?” The question pops out, unbidden. It’s certainly not what I intended to ask him. My heart trips and trembles at the risk I’ve exposed myself to.
No matter his answer, I know it’ll hurt. Either he’s proved himself likeable and the person whose attention he wanted is ready to slide into my place, or the plan’s failed. In which case, he must be disappointed to have wasted these weeks fake dating me.
“I think dinner’s ready,” Jeremiah says.
His focus is on removing a baking sheet, loaded with vegetables, from the oven.
The stewpot on the stove releases fragrant steam when he lifts the lid and sets it to the side.
A second sheet pan with golden rolls spaced evenly across it comes out of the oven next, and those he dumps into a napkin-lined basket.
“I made braised beef and vegetables. Nothing fancy, but it’s similar to the beef bourguignon we had at Pieridea . ”
Our one fancy dinner date. Neither of us comments on his change of subject and failure to answer my question.
I allow him to distract me from our Twenty Questions game as he plates our food and we sit at the cozy table in the breakfast nook beside the kitchen.
The beef is every bit as tender as the main course we had at the Pieridea when we attended Beverly Reckman’s retirement dinner last week.
I’m not surprised he remembers how much I’d enjoyed my meal there. He’s an observant person. It doesn’t mean anything, or at least, that’s what I tell myself.
“How did I not know you’re this good of a cook? I feel like this is something you should have led with. Seriously, this is delicious!” I gush.
“It’s just wine and time, that’s all.” He pushes food around on his plate, dragging out the meal and delaying any serious discussion.
I’m uncertain what mundane topics we discuss as dinner turns into dessert. The box-made brownies aren’t fancy, but he added pecan pieces and drizzled caramel over the top before serving them under giant scoops of vanilla ice cream.
My brain unhelpfully reminds me I’d once mentioned pecans being my favorite. Another quiet way Jeremiah shows me how thoughtful and considerate he is. It makes me wonder what it would be like to be the object of his real interest and not a bartered fake girlfriend.
Before I have time to process the end of our evening, I’m at the front door and searching for an excuse to stall leaving. Jeremiah’s got a tense set to his jaw that makes me wonder if he’s anxious to see me go or wishing I’d stay.