Page 17 of Wildflowers and Wide Receivers

“Can I see you again?”

What does he want to see me for? He’s had over two years to find me and see me, and now by some random chance, he runs into me again and thinks now is the time? I know this isn’t fair, but it’s how I feel.

Actually, I feel like a rutabaga.

I know that’s a terrible comparison, but everyone has that one crazy relative who makes a rutabaga casserole as a holiday dish for the family get-together. We always eat it, and every time I think to myself, this vegetable doesn’t taste too bad, but then I forget about it once the dinner is over until the next holiday when I’m like, “Oh yeah. I forgot I like rutabagas.”

Out of sight, out of mind.

But even though I liked the casserole, it wasn’t memorable enough for me to seek out rutabagas in the store to make them for myself. So aside from being confused as to why he would ask to see me again, I’m also irritated. Because, rutabaga. No one likes being a rutabaga.

“You’re quiet tonight,” Isaac says, pulling me from my thoughts. He’s looking at me, but the second my eyes catch his, he looks down at his plate.

Inwardly, I flinch. He’s right. I’m here on a date with him, but I’m not here at the same time, and now, I feel bad.

“Am I? I’m sorry. I just have a lot on my mind.” I try to blow it off and ease his thoughts.

Earlier today, Isaac asked me if I wanted to grab dinner after work, and of course I said yes. I told myself I had no reason not to want to grab dinner, that I should want to. After all, we are dating. So here we are, even though I’m still out of sorts and kind of wishing I was just at home in my pajamas.

“Anything you want to talk about with me?” There are wrinkles between his smoky-gray eyes as concern moves over his expression.

I swear, this man is too good to be true. He picked a tapas place, which is perfect in that it’s noisy and not super romantic. The ambience is upscale, and all of the food has a Spanish name, like pollo al chilindron and arroz caldoso. They have the best sangria, which he said he knew I loved.

“No,” I tell him, and disappointment slips over his features.

“I see,” he says, leaning back, taking his sangria with him to pull a long swallow of it.

The problem is, there is nothing to talk about. At least nothing that he needs to be made aware of, and certainly nothing he can help me with. No guy wants to hear about another guy.

And I don’t get it. I really don’t.

Jonah and I are not a thing. We never were. Our time together wasn’t even twelve hours. I met him sometime around ten at night, and he was gone before nine in the morning. Now, years later, after two barely ten-minute conversations and a bouquet, I’m so out of sorts I don’t even know where to begin.

Actually, I do.

Nowhere. There is no place to begin.

“You know . . .” He sets his glass down, readjusts the napkin sitting in his lap, and then looks at me, like really looks at me. “All these months, I’ve been waiting for you.”

My breath catches, and deep down in my gut, I know he’s about to steer this conversation to a place I don’t think I’m ready to go. I don’t like confrontation or uncomfortable situations, and by this one statement, he’s surprised me and made me wary. “What do you mean?”

I watch as he pulls at the collar of his pale-blue dress shirt as if it is trying to strangle him. He wore the same shirt to work today, but it was buttoned up and paired with a tie covered in bears. “I don’t know. I’ve always felt like you needed time. Time for what, I’m not sure. I just never got the feeling that you were as into me as I was into you.”

I think about what he’s saying, and he sits back and sighs deeply as he sees the confusion on my face. I’m into him. I have been since the first time he asked me out almost six months ago. I always say yes, and we do everything he suggests. I can’t think of one time I’ve told him no. I want to make him happy, so I always go with the flow.

“I’ve been trying to give you space to get used to the idea of us, of me.” He runs his hand over his head. It disrupts his perfectly styled hair, and suddenly, I feel worse than I did before. I’m messing him up when normally he’s so put together, and I didn’t even know I was doing this. “I don’t know, Sophie. In the beginning, you came off almost like a skittish cat. You took the job with us, still wired from coming out of the fellowship, and I waited as I watched the contentment slowly settle. I get it. We’ve all been there. I didn’t want to push you too hard or too fast, but then I was afraid I might miss my shot.” He lets out another deep breath. “I feel like I’m always walking on eggshells around you. I hate it, but it’s been months, and I feel like we’re stagnant. Are we?”

“I didn’t think so, at least I didn’t until just now,” I say, frowning, balling up the fabric napkin lying on my lap.

The very first time he asked me out was to our office Christmas party. Dr. Stone, who was my attending and who is also my boss, hosted the party at his home. Isaac asked if he could pick me up and then casually tossed out that we could grab a drink together afterward. I only hesitated briefly when he asked because I was concerned about what others might think of us arriving together. It had nothing to do with him and more to do with fraternization within the workplace. Clearly, I got over that, as everyone knows we’ve been seeing each other since.

His eyes scan over my face before they come back to mine. The emotion in them is pouring out, and dread sinks to the bottom of my stomach. I feel horrible. He’s anxious and sad, and apparently, I put that look there.

“Let me give you a few examples. At work, you never come and find me to ask me about my day.”

“That’s because I know you’ll come find me,” I answer quickly. It’s become almost routine that he does, and I look forward to those moments.

The group at the table next to us laughs loudly, and my eyes cut to the noise before coming back to him.