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“Boring!” I quipped over the sound of the song’s melody, laughing again at the fierce determination on his face.
Leo straightened, looking utterly appalled, like he’d just caught me pick-pocketing his grandmother. “You’d prefer I dive right into the potentially raw specifics of your life?”
I shrugged. “At least it’s more interesting.”
His eyes narrowed as a competitive edge settled over him, apparent in the broadening square of his shoulders. His lips pressed together, the pouty flesh of them tucked into his teeth. “Okay, then. You’re on, you vicious little dragon. Why didn’t you tell your parents about what happened to you?”
Any amusement I felt died in an instant. “Don’t do that.” I looked to Marge, who was now back in her seat at the bar taking a shot with Otto. I lifted my own beer to my lips and took a long pull, the carbonation burning down my throat.
When my eyes landed back on Leo, he looked smug. “Do what?”
“You know that isn’t an actual first date question. If this were a real first date, you wouldn’t know to ask something like that.” My cheeks flushed at my own defensiveness, and I hated it. Hated feeling like I was suddenly under a microscope. Like my skin was burning.
“Maybe it is.” He took another sip of his beer, eyeing me carefully. “Maybe we’re friends. Maybe we’ve been friends for a long time, and we’ve only just decided to try dating. And, in the realm of keeping things interesting as your friend-turned-date, maybe I’m concerned about you.” It felt like the heat from the dusty bar lights were lasering into my skin.
“Wow. You really like pretending when it comes to the women you date, don’t you?” It was a low blow, but I didn’t like this game. It was like he’d found a tender bruise and decided that he wanted to press into it with his thumb and swirl it around a little.
If the insult landed, he didn’t let on. Instead, he wound up for the game-winning point. “You really like pretending you aren’t lonely, don’t you?”
I was instantly moving, pushing out of the stool. But Leo anticipated my reaction because he was right there in front of me, blocking me with his body as he wrapped his hand gently around my shoulder blades. His touch was tender, and again, I hated it. “Hey—” He cleared his throat, his expression considerably softer. “None of that. We’re on a date, remember?”
I wanted to snarl at him. “Some date.”
His eyes dimmed, but he didn’t retreat. “Look, I’m sorry. I just . . .” He trailed off as his gaze swept around the bar. Then he looked down and cursed at his feet. “I worry about you, okay?”
“Why? There’s nothing for you to worry about.” I hugged my arms over my chest, the weight of his arm still draped over me acting like a tether. “I’m fine.”
He stayed quiet for a long beat, his eyes the only tell of the war going on in his mind to either challenge me or let the whole thing drop. But then I watched the moment he relented, sucking in a breath and releasing it with a “Please sit.” I stared at him for a long moment, feeling ashamed of myself, until he lifted both of his hands in surrender. “I’ll keep the potentially raw specifics off the table until at least the third date.”
“Fifth,” I countered, the corners of my mouth tugging.
“Fifth,” he amended.
He watched me as I sat back down in my stool before he took his own seat, resting both hands on the round table and looking at me. The quick tempo of a new song sounded from the jukebox—“Jackson” by Johnny Cash and June Carter. Leo’s body seemed to unfurl when he heard it, a sideways grin growing on his face as his chest expanded beneath the flannel of his shirt.
“You like this song?” I asked, even though I knew the answer.
“I love it,” he confirmed. “It’s my favorite of them both.”
“I wouldn’t have pegged you as a Johnny Cash fan.”
Leo’s fingers rapped against the surface of the table to the beat of the song. “He was a brilliant songwriter. My favorite is “Folsom Prison Blues”—you know he sang that live to the inmates at Folsom Prison?”
“I actually did know that. My Grandpa Jack is a big fan.”
“What’s your favorite song?”
“Like, ever?” I asked. He nodded, and I hesitated before answering truthfully. “Rhiannon.”
A wide smile curled on his face. “Of course.” Like he’d already known, like he just wanted to hear me say it.
“What do you mean, ‘of course’?”
His blue eyes flared. “Nothing. It’s just . . . I used to watch old videos of Fleetwood Mac’s live performances. Stevie always sang like . . . like she was on fire. It suits you.”
I felt like I might spring outside of my skin. “You used to watch old videos of Fleetwood Mac?” It was my mother’s favorite band—she idolized Stevie Nicks, and I grew up listening to all her records on our old vinyl player. Every Sunday we’d do chores around the house and my mom would turn the music up loud before slipping into an old orange apron and dancing while she mopped the hardwood in the kitchen. Her hair would be thrown up, strands of it falling in her face from the way the music overtook her whole body.
Leo’s smile turned shy, like the admission was tied to something personal for him, too. “I’ve always been a bit of a music buff.” He watched me earnestly. “And I’ve sort of always thought . . .” He let the words run off. “I thought I might want to try writing my own songs.”
