Chapter 9
I meet you outside the restaurant. I am two minutes late, but only because I lean against the building around the corner, my back pressed against the brick, and I wait for those two minutes to pass.
Nerves pump hotly through me. Why did I come? Why did I agree to go out with you?
It was too many nights alone in my shiny new condo, falling asleep to Real Housewives reruns next to that damn empty and superfluous nightstand.
It was the absence of Adam; the absence of my father; the deficiencies of my mother, both past and present.
It was my best friend, Zoe, settling into life as a new mother, too exhausted, too overwhelmed with meeting the needs of her newborn to even think of helping to meet mine.
It was that rose, with its velvety petals, and that blouse, too small for me to wear, and imagining you standing in Ann Taylor, holding it up skeptically, fretting over the style and size.
It was the note, with its neat block handwriting, and the fact that you didn’t ask me to my face.
The note gave me a chance to think. It allowed me to decline your invitation without having to tell you in person. I could have simply ignored it—tossed the note in the trash, never put your number into my phone. But with that time to think, I realized I didn’t want to.
And I didn’t want to think. I was tired of thinking.
I haven’t dated anyone since Adam. Ever since Adam left, I’ve been protecting myself from future heartache. But was my self-protection not helping me at all? Was it hurting me, actually? What have I been missing?
Now, my back against the restaurant wall, I’m thinking again. Regret is setting in. Or is it really just fear wearing regret’s lipstick and clothes? Would I really rather be in my empty condo watching a frozen meal spin in the microwave?
It’s unseasonably cold, and my breath leaves in puffs of white, fast and ephemeral, but I feel pricks of sweat soaking the fabric of my bra. I open the buttons of my black wool coat, welcoming the chill.
I push myself away from the wall and round the corner of the restaurant before I can think any more about what I’m doing. Before I can change my mind.
There you are. You’re looking away, like you expect me to come from the opposite direction.
You turn as if you can sense my presence, the way I can feel yours.
Sparks and light ignite inside me, and I see that same brightness that I feel in your eyes, too.
Sparks, but also relief because I’m here.
You were afraid I wouldn’t show up. You smile and step toward me, and the sparks catch.
We don’t touch. Not yet. But we move into the restaurant together, our bodies so close that I can feel your warmth, and something hums in my core. It scares me.
We sit across from each other at a table by the window.
A white tablecloth grazes our knees and a white tea candle flickers when waiters rush past. My eyes fall to it every few minutes, checking to see if this surprisingly resilient flame has gone out.
Really, I’m just taking a break from your gaze, from what I can see in your eyes.
You ask for a bottle of wine—white, and I’m relieved I don’t have to explain my aversion to red. When the server returns with the bottle, you let me test it, a tiny swirl in my glass, which I sniff, then sip.
“I trust your judgment,” you say, grinning, even though you don’t know me at all.
We order our meals, and you ask the waiter to confirm that yours doesn’t have any nuts or sesame seeds.
“I’ll make sure, sir,” he says before slipping away, and you turn to me, a sheepish smile, as though your allergies are something of which you’re ashamed.
The vulnerability of you, your open face, tender when your eyes meet mine, in a way it’s not when you’re looking somewhere else.
A blush blooms and my eyes flick away, smile pulling.
We start with safe topics. Where are you from? Where did you go to law school? We talk about our jobs. What do we like about them and what do we hate? For me, it’s jury trials. You laugh at this, charmed and stunned. “You’re a personal injury lawyer,” you say. “How can you hate jury trials?”
I tell you that I settle most of my cases. I only try a few cases a year, and I love to settle them. That’s what keeps me going.
I tell you I was surprised to learn that you’re not a litigator, and my cheeks flush anew because it sounds like an insult. It makes it sound like I don’t like you, and I realize with a prickle of surprise that I do. I’m enjoying myself more than feels safe to consider.
But you only laugh and say you had litigated commercial cases for a few years and you did like it, but better growth opportunities within your firm drove you to focus on transactional work instead.
I eat sesame-crusted salmon on a bed of spinach and rice, and you have the seafood pasta.
“Sorry,” I tell you, pointing to the sesame seeds with my fork. “You won’t have a reaction, will you?”
You shake your head, wave a hand through the air. “Not unless you’re having a miserable time and slip me a bite when I’m not aware.”
“I would never,” I tell you, and I’m astonished by how deeply I mean this.
We eat slowly because we have so much to say. The bottle of wine you ordered gradually diminishes, and when it’s gone, you ask me if I want to split another one. One more glass? An after-dinner cocktail?
I do. But I say, “I can’t. I have to drive home.”
You are quiet then, watching me. I can see the question in your eyes. I can read your thoughts as plainly as if they are tattooed across your forehead. But you don’t say what you’re thinking because you don’t want to be too forward, too aggressive. You don’t want to mess things up.
So I say it for you.
“Unless you want to share an Uber after this.” My voice is soft, nearly a whisper, the words sounding like a secret.
There are starbursts at the corners of your eyes, a dimple in your left cheek, as you smile. You are so pleased. Yet still, a question remains. Also unspoken.
I answer it anyway.
“We could go back to my condo,” I tell you.
My voice is even and my tone is breezy. Casual yet bold.
More sure than before. Your smile widens, consuming your face, and our eyes lock.
A server removes our plates and deposits dessert and drink menus onto the table.
She quickly swishes away again, and the candle goes out. The fire burns inside me instead.
It’s a longing, this fire. It’s excitement, anticipation, and maybe the beginning of love. It is certainly the blush of lust. It’s only the beginning, yet already so fierce.