You don’t have to be a bitch to get your point across, and Promise has that down in spades.
“Fair enough.” I lean forward as the waiter’s hand comes across to clear our dinner plates. I notice how she sits stick straight, her sweater pulling perfectly across her chest.
The restaurant is so quiet, I wonder if she can hear the smashing of my heart against my ribs, and I have to admit I am very happy for the cover of the tablecloth over my disobeying sentinel, trapped in a war of wills against my zipper.
I’m trying to decide what to ask first.
I want it all.
Everything.
I want to know what happened to her eye. I want to know about her parents, where she grew up before she landed in foster care. How she ended up in the system. Where she lives. Who her friends are. What is her favorite color? Has she ever been in love?
Wait. No, scratch that last one. I don’t want to know that, especially if the answer is yes.
“Where do you live?” I settle on something safe.
“I live with Bruce. An apartment not far from Windfield.”
I can’t help it when my eyebrows pinch together and my lips open, taking in a quick breath.
“Wait, you live with him? Like, live with him?”
I suddenly hate him. With a seething, volcanic hatred.
“Not like that. Just roommates. He has a big apartment over in Jersey Village. He leased it when he was with his partner, and when they broke up, he was a little tight on the rent. I came along at just the right time, and it works. He’s hardly ever home, and neither am I.”
Okay, I don’t hate him anymore, but I envy him.
Why is she hardly ever home? What does she do after she leaves her shift at Windfield?
She is zipping the cross back and forth on the chain that hangs around her neck, and I want to put my lips there . . . and hold her hand.
I’ve never wanted to hold anyone’s hand before. Never. I guess I saved that for her as well.
Everyone has a thing. Something that they reserve. Hold back. It’s that one personal thing you don’t want to give someone—until you meet the right someone.
She moves that hand down to play with the spoon left next to the spot where her dinner plate had been. She’s nervous; her hand doesn’t seem to know where to light.
Fortune favors the brave, so before I know it, I’ve got my fingers under hers, pulling her hand into mine.
Her skin is warm, smooth like someone spun together clouds and sunshine. I don’t want to look at her face because I don’t want to see that she wants me to let go—if she wants me to let go.
“It’s not a date.” I hear the near painful words fall from her lips, and those fissures in my heart split open a little farther. But, she doesn’t pull her hand from mine.
“No, it’s not,” I answer back because she’s right.
A date is something you do when you are unsure of someone—the time spent trying to discover if they may be the one, so to speak, to decide if you want a second date, a third . . . or something more.
This is not a date because I already know what I want. I want it all.
My foot slips under the table until I meet hers, only then can I raise my eyes. Now I need to know. I need to see what she’s thinking, what she's feeling.
I peg her with my eyes and, for a second, I can see her start to run. Her cheeks turn pink, her tongue glances her lower lip, and I feel her panic rising. Instead of letting go, I pull her hand toward me and lean closer.
“Tell me something about you no one else knows.”
She lets out a laugh, but it’s not because she thinks my question is funny.
“Why? Why would I tell you that? I hardly know you. I’m not even sure I like you.” Her words and the tone of her voice are in direct opposition to one another.
Like I said, I know the truth when I hear it. The tone of her voice is the truth, and she does “like” me.
“Just take a chance. I mean, look at this face.” I tip my head to the side. “Who wouldn’t trust this face?” She picks up on my self-deprecating humor, and I hope it is enough to win another speck of her heart.
I love the way she angles her head and squints her eyes and crinkles her nose all at the same time. It’s my kryptonite. I also notice that she has no problem looking me straight in the face right now.
Most people look but only for the politically correct three seconds. Then they look away, afraid I might think they’re staring. The ironic thing is, most of the time I forget my face has anything unusual about it. I mean, every face is different. Mine just has a bit more story to tell.
“You first. Tell me something about you that no one else knows.” She tosses the ball back into my court.
I don’t miss a beat.