“Can you build IKEA furniture?” she asked, and he nodded. “How about without the instructions?”
He laughed. “Let’s not be crazy, I’m not superhuman.”
“Can you do a cartwheel?”
“If you teach me,” he said, eyes gleaming, mouth set in a challenge.
“I haven’t done a cartwheel since I was ten years old,” she said.
“See if you can,” Rob said, slowing, then stopping. He put a hand on each hip, waiting patiently.
“Really? Okay, but this is going to be terrible.” She looked for a clean patch of grass, did a run up, and then attempted a shockingly bad cartwheel, her legs hardly leaving the ground. She stood up, laughing at this pitiful attempt, only to see Rob copying her, moving his legs in the exact same way. She couldn’t catch her breath now; she was laughing too hard at the sight of a man his height attempting a cartwheel—he looked like a baby giraffe trying to stand. “Don’t copy mine, mine was terrible!” she said, holding her sides.
Across the park, a young girl with pigtails did a cartwheel, as though to illustrate how easy it was. “Like that,” Chloe said, pointing at the girl. Now Rob tried again and this time he mastered it, legs flying into a perfect arc over his head.
“Okay, now you’re just showing off. Is thereanythingyou can’t do?” she asked as they started walking again. “You know thoseCAPTCHA tests, where you need to tick all the boxes where you see a bicycle or whatever to prove you’re human? Can you do those?” She was joking, but now his face grew serious.
“No, I can only get about fifty percent of the CAPTCHAs. I also can’t swim, and I can’t open champagne bottles. Something about the dexterity required, it’s an incredibly nuanced combination of skills.”
She laughed.
“What’s funny?” he asked.
“You are.”
“I didn’t intend to be humorous,” he said, looking slightly confused.
“Well, I’m having a nice time, intended or not,” she admitted.
“Good,” he said, looking pleased. “Because I wanted to ask you if you’d go to the theater with me tomorrow night. I took the liberty of reserving us two tickets. It’s a Tennessee Williams play; it gets great reviews.”
“How did you know I like Tennessee Williams?” she asked, taken aback.
“I read your university thesis.”
“Ha. You might be the only other person in the world who’s ever read it besides me and my English professor.”
Person.She checked herself again. He was not a person.But the more he talked, the more he looked at her with those expressive eyes, the harder it was to remind herself that he was not what he appeared.
In her pocket, her phone buzzed. She stiffened. Muscle memory. Peter had hated her checking her phone when she was with him. She remembered, with shame, the time he’d “confiscated” her phone at a restaurant. She’d been waiting for animportant work email, but Peter had snatched it from her hand, told her she could have it back when she learned how to show him some respect. She’d reached for it, thinking he was joking, but he’d squeezed her wrist tight. She’d let it go, fearful of making a scene.
“I don’t mind, if you want to check your messages,” Rob said gently, as though sensing her disquiet.
She pulled out her phone, irritated with herself. Why did Peter still have this hold on her? Of course she could check her phone. Especially given Rob was basically a giant smartphone with limbs…and dreamy eyes…and a lovely accent…and impeccable fashion sense.
She had two messages. One from John, just a question mark, chasing her for the details of her plus-one. The second was from an unknown US number.
Unknown Number
Hey Chloe, I hear you’re coming to the reunion. Will be good to see you. Sean.
Chloe stared at the message for a moment, rereading it four or five times, as though she might decipher some code in the casual wording. A decade of silence and now this. “Will be good to see you.” Was he just being polite, forestalling any awkwardness over the email he’d never replied to? Or had he sent a message like this to everyone? Why did getting a text from him make her feel nineteen again?
“Everything okay?” Rob asked. He didn’t seem annoyed at her shift of focus, only curious.
She shook her head, distracted, putting her phone away. “Sorry.”
“Chloe, you don’t need to apologize. For anything,” he said, and she could swear his Irish lilt had become more pronounced as their date went on.
