Chapter Four #2
Dylan refills his glass, busying himself in a way that suggests he needs something to do, something besides waiting for me to suggest a dare that’ll make him uncomfortable. Except, I don’t want to make him uncomfortable. I want to not feel like I’m living with a ghost. Or a ghost frog.
I look around the kitchen, searching for inspiration.
My gaze snags on the cookie jar. It’s surprisingly un-kitschy, given the rest of my grandmother’s belongings.
Simple clear glass, like an oversize mason jar.
I used to collect fireflies in it, until one of them died, I bawled my eyes out, and my grandmother calmly and kindly suggested we collect cookies instead.
“I dare you to eat one of my cookies,” I tell Dylan.
His brows shoot up in surprise. He probably thought I’d dare him to dress up in pirate gear and model with a sword so I could post on social media I don’t actually have.
“I didn’t want to take advantage,” he says.
“I’m literally demanding you do it. That’s hardly taking advantage.”
“Okay. Okay.” He drags a hand down the lower half of his face, shaking his head as if he’s answering a question he doesn’t speak aloud.
Then he opens the jar, takes out a chocolate chip cookie, and eats it while leaning a hip against the counter and catching crumbs with his free hand.
It’s such an ordinary moment, just a guy eating a cookie, but it doesn’t feel ordinary.
It feels like the first few stones of a very tall, very strong fortress tumbling to the ground, letting in a little more light.
“It’s good,” he says when he finishes, brushing his hands off in the sink.
“Help yourself to more anytime.”
“Is that another dare?”
“It’s an offer. And I wouldn’t make it if I didn’t mean it.”
He nods, and I can read the thank you in his eyes without him having to say it.
I send him a silent you’re welcome in reply, then return my attention to my laptop, not wanting to push my luck. Behind me, Dylan clears his throat again. I spin around in my chair to find him watching me, brows lightly raised, as he tips his chin at the fridge.
Right. Okay. I guess we’re not done after all.
I get up, debate my options, and put a cartoon chickadee magnet under Truth.
Dylan considers, rubbing his stubbled chin between his thumb and knuckles.
“Have you read them?” he asks. “Your grandmother’s books?”
“Some, but only a few.”
“Not a fan of romance?”
“Not a fan of that kind of romance.”
His brows rise again, and he settles back against the counter, gripping the edge on either side of his hips and crossing his ankles as though he’s prepared to wait.
I shift in my chair, wondering if I should’ve picked dare, but now that I’ve started . . .
“Everyone falls in love the second they set eyes on each other,” I say, “which means their greatest—and sometimes only—asset is how insanely hot they are. No one takes the time to get to know anyone else. No one has to earn anyone’s affection.
Yet they make all these grand gestures and gushing statements about how they can’t live without each other.
It’s like, as long as you’re conventionally beautiful and instantly likable, adoration will fall at your feet.
And if you’re neither of those things, you’re screwed.
Not the message I needed in my teens and twenties. ”
Dylan’s considering face returns, complete with the chin massage.
To his credit, he doesn’t toss out a compliment on the assumption that I was seeking one.
I wasn’t. In general, I’m fine with my appearance, unless I give it too much thought, and then I spiral into wishing I had stronger curves, thicker hair, a smaller chin, and a complexion that looks like I use a perfect three- or five- or seven-step skin-care routine without actually using any skin-care routine at all.
“Can I ask a follow-up,” Dylan says, “or would I be breaking the rules?”
“I don’t think we set any rules to break. Go ahead.”
“What kind of romance are you a fan of?”
Did I flinch? I think I flinched. I might even be blushing.
Then I realize he’s asking for professional reasons.
He’s a writer, one who helped with my grandmother’s romances.
He must be working on one of his own, crafting his next meet-cute or deciding if he’ll introduce a troublesome dog into a scene about rival lawyers on opposite sides of a big case.
“I don’t know,” I say, even though I do know, but I’ve never said it out loud before.
“Romance that takes a little effort. A little time. She doesn’t have to be stunningly beautiful and magnetically charismatic.
He doesn’t have to be hyperconfident and overly assertive.
They don’t perpetuate the notion that all relationships begin with instant chemistry by taking one look at each other and deciding their love interest is worth dying for.
” I stop there, aware that I’m probably revealing too much about my dating history, like the first dates who unapologetically bailed within a few minutes; or sent boilerplate “no spark” messages right after a date ended; or proudly pontificated about “casting a wide net” as the ideal dating strategy, completely unaware of how insulting it was or how it implied that dating was a numbers game, and if a spark wasn’t instant, you moved on to the next in line.
About being told I’m not fun enough. I don’t smile enough.
I seem cold, reserved, distant. About the reasons I kept sleeping with Noah, so I didn’t have to continue putting myself through all that, just to enjoy a little companionship.
Also, Dylan is listening way too intently for him to be crafting a chapter about a dog. I don’t know how we went from perfunctory greetings to prodding at some of my hardest social challenges in the span of a single conversation, but apparently, we have, and I’m not a fan.
“Forget I said all that.” I wave away the conversation with both hands. “I just prefer something real, something that builds on shared experience and small moments of connection.”
“Such as?” He’s still looking at me, or looking into me, like he can see every rejection that still clings to my bones, eating away at my self-worth. My grandmother’s books are full of penetrating stares, and her readers love them, but in reality? They can be incredibly irritating.
“I don’t know, Dylan.” My teeth grind together as I scan the kitchen for inspiration, pausing as my gaze returns to the cookie jar. “How about one character bakes some cookies, and another character eats one and says thank you without being compelled to do it by a goddamned dare?”
Despite my heated tone, Dylan doesn’t flinch.
Nor does his expression change. I can’t tell if I’ve offended him, surprised him, angered him, amused him, or completely unaffected him.
Whatever the case, after a painfully unilluminating pause, he opens the cookie jar, deliberately stacks several cookies in his free hand, closes the jar, grabs his water glass, and heads into the hall, turning from the threshold to lift the cookies in a kind of salute.
“Thank you,” he says. And then he’s gone.