“But who will I turn to for unsolicited feedback on my grammar and spelling?”
“You can e-mail me.”
Our eyes meet and we smile at each other. I suddenly understand him so much better, just from this one conversation. I realize where his drive comes from, why he’s reluctant to get into a relationship. I see a boy without a mother who has put everyone else first for years, and my antagonism toward him melts away. Watching Will pick up his chopsticks again, I notice what exceptional table manners he has. He is an engaging dinner companion; I haven’t looked at my watch once. Perhaps I have been too reticent about spending time with new people. There is pleasure to be had in the right kind of adult company. This evening I’ve felt a long-held tension inside me start to loosen its grip.
“You’re a good brother and son. I hope your family appreciates you,” I say, finally reaching across the table to squeeze his hand. He looks pensive, all that smirking confidence gone, his piercing green eyes half-hidden beneath dark, heavy lashes.
“Let’s talk about something else,” he says, pulling his hand away, then taking his glasses off again. “I don’t think I’ve ever talked about myself this much to anyone.” He gives me a playful, pained look. It’s adorable.
“So, what you told me in the caféwastrue,” I say, clapping my hands down on the table, as though I’ve just found a missing puzzle piece.
“Can we just go back to ribbing each other, to you glowering at me like you can’t stand me? I can’t handle you looking at me with those pitying eyes, Appleby.”
“Fine,” I say, reaching out to pick up his glasses from the table, then putting them on myself. He lunges for them, but I push my chair back so that he can’t reach. Looking around the room, I don’t see anything distorted. The lenses are clear. “I knew it! They’re fashion lenses.”
Will flushes bright red. He’s totally thrown, all composure gone.
“I have never seen anyone blush so hard,” I say, finally handing them back.
He shakes his head, face still red, but now there’s a smile playing at the corner of his lips. He bites it back. “You’re going to delight in telling everyone that, aren’t you?”
“No. Your secret’s safe with me, that your vanity knows no end,” I say, thrilled.
“It’s not vanity,” he says, putting them back on. “Not entirely. I used to need glasses, then I got laser eye surgery, and—it’s ridiculous, I know, but part of me missed wearing them, having something between me and the world. I also look too young without them. It was harder to be taken seriously—”
“Poor Will, it’s so tough being so fresh-faced and gorgeous,” I say in a babying voice, reaching across to squidge his cheeks.
He juts out his chin and narrows his eyes at me, then reaches across to put the glasses back on me. “They look cute on you.” As his fingers brush my cheek, I feel an unwelcome flutter inside me. He flexes his fingers as though he felt it too.
When he leans back, he says, “Your turn. Tell me, are you going to see this twenty-two-year-old again?” Now it’s my turn to blush, and I’m glad I have his glasses to hide behind. “Maybe getting back in the saddle will make you less of a sourpuss, Appleby.” He gives me an overblown wink. I don’t know if it’s thedrinkable wine or the fact he’s shared so much, but I find myself wanting to be honest with him too.
“I’m certainly not getting ‘back in the saddle.’ ” I pause. “Caleb was attractive, fun, I think he liked me, there was a moment I could have…” I trail off.
“Kissed him?”
I nod. “Maybe I should have. Maybe I should be more spontaneous. But I didn’t feel that—” I stop, suddenly self-conscious again.
“What?” he asks. “What didn’t you feel?”
I shrug.
“Tell me,” he says, nudging my foot beneath the table.Why does this feel like we’re flirting? And who is flirting with whom?
“That draw, like gravity, like the kiss is inevitable,” I say. Will’s eyes meet mine and now I have to look away, because my stomach drops. “That sounds silly.”
“It doesn’t. I know exactly what you mean,” he says, and there’s a crackle in the atmosphere, a shift, like an oyster slowly opening to the air. Will clears his throat. “So how did you end up doing this job? Did you always dream of being aBath Livingjournalist?”
“No, but then I hadn’t planned on having a baby at twenty-five. I barely had time to work out who I was, or what I wanted, before becoming a mother. I’d done an MA in news journalism, which I loved. I’d learned to use a camera, edit footage, put story packages together. Then I applied for this graduate training program at Al Jazeera. It was highly competitive, would involve a lot of travel. If I got it, Dan said he’d give up his job and come with me.”
“You didn’t get it?” Will asks.
“No, I did. But then I found out I was pregnant.” I pause. “Suddenly it didn’t feel so sensible for Dan to quit his job and follow me to Doha.”
“Ah, I see.”
“While the children were young, it made sense for Dan’s career to be the priority. When I was ready to go back to work, I’d had such a long break, I was out of touch, technology had moved on. It was easier for me to get a job in print journalism.”
“Well, you’re an excellent writer. Clearly you have a talent for it,” Will tells me.
