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“I’m intimidating?” I question, not really sure how to take that.
“You know, like you just always seem, god I don’t know what I’m trying to say.” She blows out a breath. “I guess you would have made a good military man. Perhaps a drill sergeant. You would have been amazing at that job.”
She’s rambling and fuck me if it isn’t the most adorable thing ever.
“You done now?” I chuckle when she finally stops speaking, not able to suppress the smile stretching across my face.
“Yep. Officially mortified. We good now? Can I go home?” She hitches her finger toward the door.
“You’re not getting off that easy. You still have to tell me what you wanted to be,” I remind her.
“I wanted to be a trapeze artist,” she mutters, quickly shoving another bite of gelato into her mouth and slowly swallowing.
“What was that?” I hold my hand to my ear like I didn’t hear her.
“A trapeze artist,” she says a little too loudly, drawing the attention of the older couple sitting to our right. “In the circus. Okay?”
“You don’t have to yell it,” I tease, loving the light shade of pink that reaches her cheeks.
“Shut up.” She huffs.
“So a trapeze artist, huh? Somehow that doesn’t really surprise me.”
“Are you making fun of me right now?” She glares daggers in my direction.
“Babe, if I were making fun of you you’d know it,” I say, not missing the way her blush deepens at my choice of words.
“Whatever.” She brushes it off, clearly diverting.
“Okay, so clearly trapeze artist didn’t work out,” I observe.
“Clearly.” She rolls her eyes and sits back, crossing her arms in front of her chest.
“So then was writing always your second choice.”
“I don’t know. Maybe.” She pauses before continuing, “When I was in high school I became obsessed with old movies and even more fascinated with how the entire process works. How they brought something to life with nothing more than putting pen to paper, producing an amazing story. I guess it stuck.” She shrugs.
“Hence the English major.”
“Yep.” She nods, uncrossing her arms to take another bite of gelato.
“What about outside of that?”
“Outside of what?” she questions after she swallows.
“Outside of career choices. You’re still pretty young, there has to be things you want to do.”
“You’re almost as young as me,” she counters.
“You’d be surprised what a difference three years can make. And that wasn’t my point anyway. How about marriage and kids? Is that something you see in your future?” My turn in the conversation gets her attention and within seconds she’s abandoned her spoon in her cup of gelato and has her hands knotted in front of her on the table.
“Yes? No? Maybe?” I question when she makes no attempt to answer.
“I think I’d like to get married one day,” she offers, finally meeting my gaze. “What about you?”
“Yeah, I think eventually. Maybe once I’ve nailed down a more consistent employment and can be around long enough to actually have a relationship.”
“I see.” She twists her fingers together but doesn’t look away.
