“As I said, I’m only part owner of the boutique. The person who actually runs the day to day stuff may be gone for a while. I wanted to see if you’d be interested in running the store. And if you like it, maybe making it a permanent thing. In that case, I would purchase the boutique in full.”
“You’re kidding,” I say, clearly stunned.
“No, I’m not,” Dorian responds, folding his hands in front of him and then resting his chin on them. “I need someone I can trust, and I got the idea that you weren’t interested in working at the mall for much longer. You still haven’t told me what you plan to do after graduation.”
“Because I don’t know myself,” I say with a hint of shame. Truthfully there aren’t many things I am certain about. And with the recent revelation of my identity, my ambiguity is at an all-time high. I take a hefty sip of wine in hopes of swallowing my insecurity. “So this offer isn’t out of pity, right? You just need someone for the job that you can trust?”
“Correct,” Dorian nods.
“Ok, well in that case, I’ll think about it. Thank you for considering me,” I say a bit more formally than I intend. “Are you sure you don’t have another friend better suited to run a high-end boutique?” The opportunity would be great and would definitely provide me with the funds to move out. I just want to be sure.
“No, I don’t,” Dorian states stiffly.
I give him a cynical look. “You don’t trust anyone or you don’t have a friend?”
“Both.” Dorian’s breezy mood has dissipated and his icy façade has rolled in with the dark storm clouds that threaten to drench us after lunch. But behind his cold demeanor I get a glimpse of something else. Sorrow.
“Dorian, everyone has friends. That can’t be true. Look at how open you were with getting to know me. And if you can trust me, I’m sure there are other people you trust.” I regret bringing it up but if I bite my tongue every time I hit a nerve, I’ll never get to know him.
“No. There’s not.” Dorian reaches over and takes a sip of his red wine. Then his eyes burn deep into mine. “I had a friend once. My best friend. More like a brother. But his weakness and self-loathing led to his death. I could have stopped him; I should have. But I didn’t. I wasn’t a very good friend to him,” Dorian says quietly.
I’m taken aback by his sad account. His best friend died and he feels somewhat responsible. How do I respond to that? I reach a tentative hand towards him and let it rest gently on his.
“I’m sorry,” is all I can say. The fact that Dorian has chosen to open up to me warms my heart. He really does trust me. Why?
“I had a feeling you’d say that,” he smirks, shaking his head. “Nothing you or anyone else could have done. He made his choice. I remember how incredibly stubborn he was.” Dorian chuckles at the recollection. He looks so thoughtful and nostalgic; I just wish I could share this memory with him.
“Scusami Signor, Signora,” the friendly, rotund Italian gentleman, who I’m guessing owns the restaurant, interjects. “Are we ready to order?”
I quickly pull my hand away from Dorian’s. He slightly flinches in response and nods to the older man, then gestures for me to begin with my order. I opt for something simple: Tortellini alla Panna while Dorian goes for oven baked rigatoni.
“Why did you do that?” Dorian asks after the man has retreated to the kitchen.
“Do what?” I ask, perplexed.
“Pull your hand away from mine.”
I shrug. “Oh. I don’t know. Reflexes, I guess.”
“Does touching me bother you?” Dorian asks simply. He isn’t upset or offended; he’s curious.
“No. Not at all. It makes me feel…good. I’m just not used to public displays of affection, I guess.” I hadn’t realized it before this moment. And I surely never meant for Dorian to feel it had anything to do with him.
“It makes me feel good, too. To touch you,” Dorian murmurs thoughtfully.
“Why do you think that is?”
“Honestly?” Dorian asks, reaching out to grab both my hands. His thumbs caress my knuckles, sending tiny tingles throughout my entire body.
“Of course.” My voice sounds so different. It’s high-pitched, almost squeaky. A ringing soprano. I clear my throat.
Dorian smirks as if he hears the difference too. “I think we are like two separate powerful surges of energy, and when we collide, we ignite, creating fireworks. Chemistry, my dear Gabriella. Our chemistry is explosive,” he states as if the answer was right in front of my face the whole time.