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“May as well try it.” He spoons some into his mouth and looks up at the ceiling, eyes narrowed in thought. What comes next: yum, yuck? Why do I care? I need to take Jerry Prescott’s advice before it’s too late. I’m not sure what too late will look like, but it won’t be a good thing for me.
I should focus more on my own experiences, not just wait on tenterhooks for his. I try some of the thick soup. “Like sweet crayons?”
“Tastes like a tub of beetroot dip got left out on a patio then it rained,” Teddy replies. He’s eating it anyway.
“Nailed it.” I grin into my bowl.
“I love it when you smile. It makes me get a little flipper here.” Teddy bumps a fist on his solar plexus. “So do you want to tell me what happened with Adam? Did he break your heart? Do I need to hunt him down?” He reminds me of Melanie.
The wine makes me confess. “Prom night went badly. I was his moment of bad judgment. He went to my dad for counseling in the morning. It was pretty bad.” My voice breaks. I felt sick looking at my father’s closed office door, knowing what they were talking about.
“He shouldn’t have done that. Going to your father? That’s a violation of your privacy.”
“I don’t know about violation—”
“They thought your feelings and experience and privacy were worth less than his. It makes me really angry. What did I just tell you? People take too much from you.”
“I never thought of it that way.” I finish my wine. “So that was my last . . . encounter. Working at Providence, it’s been a chore on my to-do list that I’ve never gotten around to. Find a boyfriend. Until Melanie showed up.”
Wine reeaally works. I’m day-drunk and sitting opposite a guy I have an ill-advised crush on. I’m probably as transparent as glass right now. “I have to give Melanie an answer this afternoon about—”
“The Sasaki Method,” he finishes for me. “She’s asked me to convince you to do it. But I don’t want you to. It’s a jungle out there.” He makes a face. “And I will tell you again, dudes are garbage.”
“You’re a dude.”
He repeats, “Garbage.”
“If I don’t want to be alone in a retirement villa from the ages of twenty-five to ninety-five, I need to do something. I want you to be completely honest. If this was a real date, how would I be doing?” That sounded so neutral and platonic. I amaze myself.
“You’re being yourself, and that’s all you need to be.” When he sees that vague answer doesn’t satisfy me, he thinks on it more. “You’re a good listener, you’re funny, you’re smart and honest . . . any guy would be lucky to be sitting where I am.” His eyeline moves over my face like a sketching pencil. “You’re completely beautiful.”
I don’t let myself feel the full impact of those words, because he said them so easily. He’s always got a compliment preloaded, that’s all that was. “That’s really kind of you.” For a boy who’s rather self-obsessed, he’s been doing the majority of the listening, not me. When we make eye contact again, I get a zip in my stomach.
He asks, “Anyone on your radar?”
“Literally no one.” It’s a bald-faced lie, but I see him wilt like I’ve delivered very bad news. What an annoying question. Of course Teddy is on my radar, in the same way that you might track the progress of a hurricane heading toward your part of the coast. Just take a moment to appreciate the special electricity that runs through him, turning everything about him bright.
I may as well get a crush on a hurricane. I’d be covered by insurance.
“No one at all on your radar.” He’s giving me one more chance to get the answer right. What does he want from me? To admit that I love the citrus yellow chips in his hazel eyes—and how they only show when the light hits them just right?
“My radar is broken.”
He’s not happy with that. He expects everyone to be in love with him. “We’ll tune it up. What’s your end goal? Mel has shown me her dream bridesmaid’s dress.”
“Lilac, I know.” What I really want can’t be said out loud. I want to sit on my couch with Heaven Sent on in the background, making out with a guy who employs just the right amount of give and take. “I can’t tell you what my end goal is. You once told me you’re easily traumatized.” It feels good to say something so bold. It inks out his pupils.
“Traumatize me.” He reaches out a hand and lays it flat on the tablecloth. It’s a request. Touch it. Give. “I want you to.”
Is this one of those moments I’ll look back on later and wonder what would have happened if I’d had the courage to just slide my own hand into his, in the middle of a fancy restaurant on a weekday? If I had, would those fingers curl and tighten on mine?
Give, give, give.
“I wanna find a nice normal guy and kiss him on my couch,” I say to see how he reacts. Not well. A frown forms, the hand is pulled back, and I never get to know if I had that kind of skin courage. I smile to cover my nerves. “What? That was pretty tame.”
He frowns. “There really aren’t that many guys dating online that’d be happy to stop at that.”
“Who said I wanted to stop?”
