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“Tell me what you taste.”
She opened her eyes, and I saw her pupils were dilated. “It’s spicy but has hints of sweetness.” She set the glass down as a little sigh escaped. “I’ve never been much of a drinker, but that wine tasted—”
“Exquisite?”
She nodded.
Just like you.
“What do you want to know about me?”
“Anything. Everything. I just want to hear your voice. I want to know everything there is to know about you, Grace.”
She smiled, a look of embarrassment covering her face. I didn’t stop myself as I reached across the table and took her hand in mine, smoothing my thumb over her pulse that beat rapidly under the soft skin of her wrist. But I let go of it and didn’t linger.
“There’s not much to tell. I’m pretty much as plain as they come.”
I shook my head slowly, my fingers wrapped loosely around the wineglass, moving the digits along the smooth stem. It was idle work, something to keep me busy, because if not I’d have her in my lap and be kissing her until we were both on the verge of losing it.
“There’s nothing plain about you, Grace.” She lifted her hand and tucked her hair behind her ear, the little pearls she wore catching the light and shining slightly.
“My mother and father are divorced. He lives in Florida with his new wife now. They just had a baby last year.” She looked up at me, this vulnerability in her expression. It was like she had never talked about herself to anyone else, had never bared herself. “I’ve never seen the baby in person. It’s kind of weird to think about visiting them when his new wife isn’t much older than I am.”
I didn’t like that she seemed upset talking about this, and I was about to tell her we didn’t have to talk about it anymore, but she took a deep breath in and I knew she wanted to say more.
“So it’s just been my mother and me for the past couple years.” She was staring at her wineglass, the candle catching it and casting light prisms along the table.
I could see she was flustered in what she’d said, her mind elsewhere. I didn’t like that. I wanted her here, in the present with me.
There was so much I wanted her to tell me, so much I wanted to know about Grace. I wanted to know what her favorite food was, her favorite smell. I wanted to know if she liked sunsets or sunrises better. I wanted to know what she thought about before she fell asleep, what was the first thing that came to her mind when she woke up.
I wanted to know everything, but I didn’t want to take her to a dark place, and it was clear that the divorce of her parents, the fact her father had moved on with someone close to her age and had another child, bothered her immensely.
So as much as I didn’t want to tell her about my past so soon, wanted to work up to that, talking about myself might bring her back around to where she wasn’t drowning in her worries.
The waitress brought out the antipasto, but my appetite had taken a nosedive.
“My parents died when I was young, and I ended up moving in with my uncle.” She looked up at me then, and I saw instantly that her thoughts weren’t on the problems in her life anymore. She looked concerned for me, sad even. “My uncle was a hard man, cold and reclusive. He was a self-made multimillionaire and was so engrossed with his wealth that he kept people at a distance. He had no emotions, didn’t make personal connections or relationships with anyone.”
“God, I’m so sorry.”
I gave her a tight smile and hated that the atmosphere had gone melancholy, but I wanted her to know every aspect of my life.
“The only reason he took me in was because he didn’t have an heir, and the thought of losing everything once he died had the selfish part of him rising up.” I picked up my glass and took another long sip, thinking about the past, about how everything had played out in my life. “He didn’t care for me. In fact, when I moved in with him, that was the first time I had ever met him. He and my father had never been close and had actually been estranged since before I was even born.”
I thought about how whenever my uncle had been brought up in conversation, my father would close up, get angry. It was rare that his name was uttered in our house, but every time it had been, my father became closed off, hateful even.
“What a lonely life to lead.”
I didn’t know if she was talking about my uncle, my father, or, hell, me. But she was right regardless. “To this day I don’t know what caused them to hate each other so much.”
