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Mom always has to have the best. Be the best.
Cue mental eye roll.
Since living on my own, most nights I cook at home or get takeout from small, local places. Nothing pricey or lavish. I tend to not dine out often since crowds aren’t my thing.
Tonight is an exception. Tonight is a special occasion. My art in a gallery—without the help or influence of my mother—warrants celebration. And there is no other person I would rather share an overpriced, intimate meal with than Shelly.
“It’s fine, Shelly. Tonight is a special occasion and I’d like to indulge. Order what you’d like and don’t worry about the cost.”
She shifts the menu so it hides her eyes. After a few deep breaths, she nods and scans the menu again. Thank goodness she doesn’t fight me on this. On the price of a meal. Yes, the cost of dinner here is more than I typically spend. But tonight is worth every cent.Sheis worth every cent and much more.
The server comes to the table, tells us the chef specials for the evening, takes our drink order and gives us another moment to decide. Before either of us sets our menu down, the server returns with two glasses of red wine and takes our order.
Shelly stares out the window at the fire-tinged horizon. Studies the skyline, sips her wine, and sighs. I don’t hide my stare. Don’t hide my eyes as they trace the arch of her brow, slope of her nose, and plump lines of her lips. I drink her in more than ever. Get drunk on her and not the wine. Love how at ease she is in this moment, at a table with me, sharing a meal after an evening on my arm.
Our easy connection has me dizzy. The comfort she gives has me wobbly in my chair.
The entire night—the drive, the gallery, dinner—is more than I expected. With Shelly, I set zero expectations. But she shocks me at every turn, with what she says and the feelings she stirs up from deep, hidden places.
The more time Shelly and I spend together, the more I want to open myself to her. Give her pieces of myself I have given no one. Not even Kelsey.
Over the last two months, Shelly has wiggled her way in. Not with her wit or charm or beauty—although, I love these traits too—but with her magnetic energy and gravitational pull.
In our minimal conversations, we communicate more with silence and body language than most do with words. Our quiet chats reflect my introversion more than her natural disposition. Shelly lights up a room with her exuberance. Being the center of attention has never been my cup of tea, but I want to test the waters. Dip my toes in, ask the questions on the tip of my tongue, and learn more about Shelly Reed.
And share more about myself.
“Do you visit the beach much? When it’s warmer, obviously.”
She inhales deeply then shifts her gaze from the setting sun to me. “Not as much as I did years ago. This adulting business is bullshit.”
I laugh, far louder than I should, but it can’t be helped. Thinking back, I can’t recall many occasions when a curse slipped between Shelly’s lips. Not that I pictured Shelly as a complete saint.
“Couldn’t agree more. Whoever came up with the idea you had to pay to live, to exist… I’d like to have a word with them.”
Now, it’s her turn to laugh. Head slightly back, hand over her heart, lips and eyes tipped up at the corners. I love how effervescent the sound is. Like carbonation and sunshine. A gust of wind on a still day. Her laughter is one more thing to like about the woman sitting across the table.
“What about you?” she asks. “Do you visit the beach much?”
“I actually enjoy the beach when it’s cooler. Not the water, but bundled in a blanket on the sand with my sketchpad. A unique creativity sparks when I’m out in the elements. It challenges me in a fresh way. Changes how I interpret what I see and feel on paper, or canvas later. It also depends on my mood.”
She nods then sips her wine. Before either of us gets in another question, the server returns with the appetizer—ricotta-stuffed figs with a balsamic reduction. I gesture for Shelly to taste one first.
“What’s your favorite color?” The question is generic. One I probably know the answer to, based on her wardrobe, but I ask anyway.
“Pink.” Correct. Shelly may not be decked out in pink daily, but she incorporates the color in her life. Polish, hair accessories, jewelry, lip gloss, pins. I see each touch, each shade and variation.
“Favorite foods? Aside from bread.” We both laugh under our breaths.
“That’s a little more difficult.” She taps her lips with a finger and my eyes magnetize to the action. “Household staples… Ilovecashew butter. Too much for my own good. Slap it on crusty bread”—her frame wilts slightly as a dreamy look fills her eyes—“and I’m in heaven.” Her exaggeration of the word love makes me chuckle under my breath. “Prepared foods, especially ones I don’t cook”—we both laugh—“bulgogi. There’s more, but those rank highest.”
Flashes of the other night, of Shelly in my house, eating dinner with me in front of the television, pop in my head. Followed by waking up with her wrapped in my arms. I want another night with Shelly. I want another morning with her snuggled against my frame.
“Still can’t believe I’d never eaten it before the other night.”
“Right? I’ll make it your favorite too.” She winks and the corner of my mouth instantly lifts.
With simple ease, we slip into a more intimate space. One I learn to love more each time it happens. One that doesn’t put me in panic mode. Doesn’t have me fleeing the scene like I committed homicide. I never want to be scared at the ease flowing through my veins, at the comfort I feel being with Shelly. Ever.
