“Something beginning with Z?” Victor asked hopefully, and I laughed.
“What is your obsession with that letter?!”
The waiter came over and took our orders, and we continued chatting about baby names. I laughed until my stomach hurt. This was the Victor I remembered, but an even better version.
The food was out of this world, and once I’d eaten my weight in steak, I honestly felt like I was going to pop.
“Come on, you’ve got to have dessert. Zucchini?—”
“Don’t finish that sentence,” I warned him as he grinned. We gazed at each other for a minute, but I looked away, pretending to look at the dessert menu.
“Victor, I’ve already gained so much weight, if I have dessert, I’m telling you, I will explode. There’ll be a baby here in ten minutes,” I joked.
“Then have a dessert! I want to meet our girl!” Victor demanded, reaching over the table to take my hand. “You are pregnant and beautiful. I’ve never seen a more beautiful zucchini-holder in my life.”
I rolled my eyes but couldn’t stop smiling.
Because Victor was the man, I was, and always would be, in love with.
Our second date was at the movies, and all they had showing was a horror. I clung to Victor throughout, hiding during the slasher scenes.
“Jesus,” he muttered when I squeezed his hand so hard it cracked.
“You know horror scares me!” I hissed, squinting so I didn’t have to look at the screen.
“I know, but this was all they had on, or a musical, and you?—”
“I hate musicals. I know,” I muttered.
I rested my head on his shoulder and tried to avoid the screen, my eyelids already drooping.
“Hey,” Victor said, kissing my head. “Shall we go home?”
I yawned and tried to say no, but Victor just laughed.
“Let’s go home, baby.”
On the third date, he suggested a name during a pottery class.
“Zara,” he leaned over and whispered to me, with clay all over his fingers and face.
I looked up at him, and he grinned.
“Zara?” I blinked in confusion.
“For Zucchini. I like the name Zara.”
I smiled. “I like that,” I said, before realising the clay had started to warp. “Dammit!”
“Here, look.” Victor moved and sat behind me, his thighs pressing on mine as his hands slid around my waist. “Relax your hands.”
His chest brushed my back as he covered my hands with his. Together, we steadied the spinning clay, his thumbs pressing slightly on the wobbling wall, his hands steading the outside, coaxing the lopsided wall into shape.
“You’re applying too much pressure,” Victor murmured in my ear, and shivers danced down my spine. “Let the wheel do the work.”
Slowly, the clay stopped buckling and started to resemble something graceful.
“Thank you. Who knew you were so good with your hands?”
