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Mitchell smiled as he scooped up a scallop on his fork. His eyes closed as he chewed it, a soft moan escaping from his mouth. "Mmm, this is sooo good."
I picked up a scallop myself and, within a few seconds, was sighing in agreement.
"So, what’s your ankle tattoo of?" Mitchell asked as we finished off the last of the scallops.
"Excuse me?"
He wiped the corner of his mouth with the white fabric napkin before placing it down on his lap again. "When I was snorkeling today, I noticed you had a tattoo on your left ankle. But I couldn't make out what it was."
"Oh, that. It’s nothing special. Bit of a mistake, really. I went to Ibiza, which is a party island in Spain, with friends when we all turned eighteen. We spent most of the week there sloshed off our faces and at some point, in some drunken-induced haze, we all decided that getting a tattoo was the best idea in the world."
Mitchell tossed me a friendly smile. "That’s a cool story."
"That’s nice of you to say, but I actually regret it. The tattoo is a laurel wreath that wraps around my ankle bone. It’s meant to be a Greek symbol of victory or something."
"Sounds classy."
I loved how Mitchell always seemed to find the good in everything. I wondered if that was why he’d had such bad luck with guys before. He’d seen the good in guys who didn’t have much of it, who didn’t deserve his trust.
We kept chatting away merrily for the rest of the meal, the banter flowing freely between us. The more time I spent with him, the more I felt a pull inside of me, wanting to be even nearer and closer to him.
At the same time, I was doing my best to keep reality at bay. Our time together was limited. Mitchell was on a weekend package: arrive Friday, leave Sunday.
Normally, that was the main appeal for me. Meet, fuck, leave. Rinse and repeat the next weekend. And the one after that. And so on.
But with him, I wanted to find a secret back-door entrance into the machine known as Time and figure out a way to stop it from forging mercilessly ahead. Every unrelenting second that passed meant that I was closer and closer to having him slip through my fingers. Forever.
In less than twenty-four hours, he’d be gone. Which meant one thing—I had to squeeze out every precious drop of the time we did have left.
After the server cleared our dessert plates, Mitchell’s face grew serious. "I, uh, just wanted to say thank you again, Cayman. Today was really special."
I reached my arms across the table, wrapping my hand around his delicate fingers. "It was special to me, too."
He smiled, but it didn’t reach anywhere near his eyes. He looked like he had something more to say. An uneasy feeling developed in the pit of my stomach while I waited for him to talk.
"I, uh, feel like such an idiot."
I tightened my grip around his hand. "An idiot? Why would you feel like an idiot?"
"Because I am." His lower lip trembled, and something dark flashed across his face. "I’m an idiot who doesn’t even know how to swim, who’s so bad at dating that I won a radio contest. I’m just?—"
"Beautiful and perfect." The words tumbled out of my mouth in a rush.
Mitchell’s eyes widened, his mouth opening and snapping shut a few times.
"I know guys have treated you badly before, Mitchell. But"—I cast my gaze deep into those brown eyes—"I’m not like those other guys."
"I know you’re not," he shot back quickly. "I could tell from the moment I met you. And I knew it for sure last night when you didn’t want to pressure me into...you know...having sex."
I stroked my fingers across the back of his hand. "I will never pressure you into anything."
Some of the tightness in his shoulders left him, and he released a smile. "I just feel so silly. You look like the kinda guy who's all perfectly put-together?—"
I scoffed so hard the couple at the table next to us glanced over to make sure I wasn’t choking. "Let me stop you right there. I am so not perfectly put-together."
His eyebrows scrunched together. "You’re not?"
I laughed, more to release the tension that had been building up inside of me than because of anything funny happening.
