We wander around the rest of the festival, staying close.
The sky has started to dim, with the sun starting to set behind the courthouse.
We end up near the edge of the square, where a couple of hay bales are arranged around a small fire pit that isn’t lit yet, while the band plays an old country song I vaguely recognize but couldn’t name.
Nate sits and pats the spot next to him. “Feet hurt yet?”
“A little,” I admit, settling beside him, closer than necessary. “Heels were a choice.”
“You don’t gotta dress up for me, y’know.”
“I didn’t,” I say, and that’s only partly true.
His eyes trail over me again, and the discomfort from earlier has faded to a quiet thing I can ignore. “Coulda fooled me. You look extra beautiful today, and that’s saying something,trust me.”
I look away, attempting to hide how much his words affect me.
“What is it, Darlin’?”
“You keep saying things like that.”
“Because it’s true.”
He gives me that smile again, and for some reason, my nervous system decides now is the time to remember that this is a date and there areexpectations.
“You okay?” Nate asks when a heavy silence settles over us.
And I must wait too long to nod because he continues, “You don’t have to pretend with me, Iris. If you’re not having fun—”
“I am,” I cut in, “I’m just—” I pause, reaching for the right thing to say, and he waits patiently.
“I’ve never been on a date before,” I admit, letting the fragile words hang in the air between us. I brace for the moment that things change, but when I look at him, Nate doesn’t look shocked.
He doesn’t laugh like part of me assumed he would.
“Okay,” he says simply, like I just told him the weather.
“I don’t know what I’m doing,” I continue. “What I’m supposed to say. How I’m supposed to act.”
“There’s no script, Iris. You’re not supposed to act any certain way.”
“Maybe not, but you, you’re easy to be around. I’m not.”
“I don’t think that’s true.”
“You don’t know me well enough to say that.”
He nudges my knee with his. “Maybe not. But I thought I made it clear that I’d like to.”
“Why me?” I ask before I can stop myself, and he frowns at the question, but the underlying softness to his face neverdisappears.
“Iris.” He reaches over, taking my hand again. “I’m freakin’ crazy about you.”
I look down at our hands. His warm and steady, mine trying to tremble in his comforting grip. “You barely know me.”
“Maybe, but what I do know? I like. A lot.”
“You like the version of me that’s pretending she knows how to be normal on a date,” I say, staring down at my stupid shoes.
