Benji swallows, hard, his jaw clenched.
“Go ahead and take a seat,” she explains, waving at a small table with two chairs. “In front of you, there’s a card and some colored pencils.”
As Benji takes the seat across from me, it’s suddenlytwo weeks ago, and I’m back at speed dating again. Except this time, I have been paired with Benji, and it’s exactly as wonderful and painful as I thought it would be.
“Without looking away from your partner or raising your pencil off the page, draw their portrait. Focus on every detail you see—the slope of their nose, their cheeks, their mouth. Really look at them. Try to capture as much as you can.”
The fuck? Who designed this torture?
White-knuckling the pencil, I swallow and look up, and it’s allgreen, green, green.Fuck. I couldn’t look away if I tried. I forgot how beautiful his eyes were.
Our eyes lock, and holding the pencil between his teeth, he smiles, detonating a series of explosions somewhere south of my ribs.
Keep. It. Together.
I race through the task, tracing the lines of his face—his strong nose, his square jaw, the plush curve of his wildly seductive mouth. It’s the longest I’ve allowed myself to look at him since he came back.
“Pencils down,” the guide says.
Thank God. I’m definitely ready for the next room.
“Now, take turns telling your partner your favorite feature of theirs. It doesn’t have to be physical; it can be their laugh or something about their personality. Then share a secret. Something you haven’t told them before. Again, don’t rush through it. This is only for you and your partner. There are no wrong answers. When you’redone, take the yellow door at the back of the room to go to the silent disco.”
Oh God. Secrets? Why wasn’t that on the website?
I shouldn’t be here. Who the hell saves their ex from being stood up because they felt bad? I could be in my apartment, crying over a laundry commercial instead.
“Um …”
“Something wrong?” he asks, and, yes, there is absolutely something wrong.
The problem is, I can think of a hundred of my favorite things about Benji.
The problem is, I don’t know if I can handle hearing Benji compliment me.
The problem is, if he doesn’t, I might die.
I say nothing, but he doesn’t push. Instead, he starts cleaning up—picking up each pencil, flipping it so the sharpened point is in the air, and sliding it back into place in the center of the table.
“I’ll go first then,” he says. “I like everything about you.”
The teenagers at the next table start giggling over their portraits. Most of the room is having fun, and I’m here while Benji is determined to plunge his hand straight into my chest for a second time.
“You can’t say that. You’re supposed to pick one thing. Your favorite, if you have one.”
“That’s right,” he says, as if I’m not understanding him. “And that’s my answer.”
My heart flutters and kicks. “Benji …”
“Why don’t you believe me?”
“Because that’s ridiculous.” And it’s so nice that it hurts.
“I think it’s ridiculous that you don’t believe me.”
“Fine, whatever. I’ll go.”
“Please do.”
