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We jaw about mild politics and publishing, but mostly, we talk about the people around us. Making up stories about their lives and guessing who’s hooking up or holding on to a secret. We joke about who’s the scientist who had the lab experiment gone wrong and will end up being a superhero.
The burger is wonderful, and we share a pitcher. I sip lots of water, so I don’t do stupid things or throw up the burger. He takes fries off my plate and never misses a beat in the speech he’s espousing about some Kansas senator being the right kind of politics at the wrong time. And a Michigan congresswoman being the wrong kind of politics at the right time. He always speaks with such passion and hope. Alex genuinely believes there might be a bipartisan future, despite all evidence to the contrary. He’s not yelling at me to think like him. He’s simply excited about the prospect of how the country can progress into a different era. I’m captivated, not only by his jawline but by what he’s saying.
His phone is in his pocket, and my pen is my coat. Neither of us wants to break the spell. I reach over and play with his fingers. He’s drumming on the table.
His hand needs lotion, and his cuticles are dry as hell, but the palm of his hand is warm and inviting. I’m scooping my fingers in and out of his until he grabs my hand like a Venus flytrap and pulls on my arm to come closer. He scoots his chair next to me instead of across from me. His hand is dangling off the edge of the table, waiting for mine. I hold it, and he strokes the back with his thumb. This handholding seems more significant than sex.
I compose myself. Every piece of me is lit up like white twinkle lights in a backyard at his touch. “How often do you travel?” I’m curious.
“A lot the past couple of years. Getting the company off the ground and the brand built has been nuts. Then with the midterms, we’re all over the place hoping to be heard or to help. It should settle down to just live theater tapings after November.” He shifts his hand and retakes mine. I squeeze in approval.
“Do you like it?” I ask.
“I love not being chained to my desk. I love working. I seriously work all the freaking time. I should be working right now.”
I agree with him. “Me too. I have the same thing. I absolutely love everything about it. I’d rather be working than anything else.”
“Anything?” He crooks his eyebrow, and my adrenaline surges.
“Almost anything,” I say with pursed lips. I can feel a slight flush from my cheeks.
“Do you travel all the time?” he asks.
“As much as I can. I adore readings and will go anywhere to do them.”
He smiles as if he actually gets what I’m saying when no one else ever has. He says, “Exactly. But I’d also do it in a vacuum. I’d do it regardless of whether anyone was listening or not.”
“Same.”
His eyes sparkle when he talks about work. “When the numbers started coming in about how many people were listening to the first couple of pods, we were fucking shocked.” He won’t let go of my hand, but now he’s leaning in a little closer. God, he smells good. I have no idea how someone can smell that good. Fresh like warm summer cut grass and soap bubbles. I certainly don’t smell that good.
“Relationships?” I venture further into who he might be.
“All failed because of work.”
“Same.” I giggle as he laughs at me, but I’m serious. He doesn’t need details, but it’s a seriously familiar scenario. He’s looking around as if he’s gathering thoughts.
He takes a sip and says, “My dad sells ad space for the Boston Globe.”
“Cool.” I’m not sure where he’s going with this sudden subject change.
“No. Not cool.” He takes away his hand. This isn’t flirting but seems to be a piece of his origin story. I sit up to pay attention, but I’m also watching his lips.
“He was a journalist.”
“Was?”
“The foreign affairs on-air correspondent for ABC News London desk when he met my mom. He’d been to some far-reaching places and was on deck to take the desk in Washington.”
“That is fucking amazing. He came up with the likes of Barbara Walters and Peter Jennings?”
“And Dan Rather, who was at CBS at the time. They were drinking buddies.”
“Vietnam?”
“Yes, he covered a lot of it in the late 60s early 70s.”
“Damn, your dad got game.”
