Chapters (54)
I smiled, despite myself. “Yeah, I’m sorry about that. I’m bad at mornings, you know?” A waiter came with the bill and Tom slid his Amex into the check sleeve. “There’s too much intimacy in waking up next to someone you barely know. The morning breath, in a strange bed—or couch. We’re both sober. Whatever fun we had the evening before has dwindled and been forgotten, replaced by whatever inane responsibilities we have that morning. It’s a lot to navigate with someone you’ve known only a few hours.” I watched the waiter take away the check.
“Well, what if you got to know me for longer than a few hours? Would you stay over then?” He looked at me inquisitively, the question so genuine that I had to catch myself before I blurted out something I may have regretted.
“How much would it matter to you?” I replied coquettishly.
He dropped his hand on the table, inching it closer to mine, his cuticles so well maintained, the nail beds scrubbed so clean, that it almost looked like he was wearing clear polish. “It would mean a lot.”
I fumbled then, dropped my hand back to my lap, averted my gaze from his penetrative one. “You know, it’s a little odd to be asking that on a second date.”
He sat back, keeping his hand where it was on the table. “I know. But I’m almost forty. I’m not looking to play games. I’m sorry if that was too direct. I’m sorry if I’m awkward. I haven’t dated in a while, as you can imagine.”
And he did sound apologetic. His gaze fell to the floor; he rubbed the back of his head sheepishly. That was what took me in, made me walk my fingers over to his and graze them. The self-consciousness. Because what gave me more of a high than having the power? Sure, he was rich and good-looking. But he was fumbling. He was being too earnest. And that meant I could twist him any way I pleased. I was used to the loud, self-indulgent air that most men, especially the older ones, give off. The arrogant self-preservation that they exuded when they were called out for their shortcomings, their vulnerability.
He was doing the opposite. That was what hooked me.
We left the restaurant, somehow hand in hand, the gallery around the corner, a light misting of rain coating the sidewalks as we dashed over toward it. It felt romantic. And when I looked at him, by the artificial light streaming through the gallery windows, before we walked in, I barely noticed the imperfections. His face was somehow symmetrical again, chiseled and precious and twinkling.