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“That depends,” I say. “Are you hungry? Because I am.”
She smiles and nods. “I could eat.”
I look around, meaning to gesture for the waiter to bring us some menus, but then I notice Madison pouting at me.
“Why the sour face?” I ask.
“It’s nothing.”
My hand rises, just as hers did. I have to force it to the table. Reaching over, touching her… it feels too natural. It feels like what we’resupposedto do. Not sitting here as if we never want to touch.
“I thought you were looking around to see if anybody was watching us,” she murmurs. “Then it hit me.Duh. You were looking for the waiter, right?”
“I’m not ashamed of you,” I say firmly.
“I get that, but it’s natural, isn’t it, to wonder what people think?”
“I was just thinking that,” I admit.
“And?”
“They might assume we’re father and daughter.”
I’m almost scared to admit this fear, but with Madison, I want to share everything, and that includes insecurities.
She folds her arms tightly. She’s wearing a pink shirt buttoned up, with a stylish jacket draped over her chair. Her hair is down, wavy, beckoning to my hands, demanding that I gently run my fingers through it.
“Let them think whatever they want. Remember? Thetruth… and the truth is, I don’t give a damn.”
I raise my glass. “Here’s to not giving a damn.”
She laughs as we clink them together. “Thisdoesfeel like a date. Not that I’d know…”
“You’ve never been on a date before?” I ask.
She shakes her head.
“Is that because of the stuff your mom says about men?”
I haven’t discussed what happened yesterday with Veronica and the uncomfortable implication in her words. There’s no firm proof Veronica wants me, only hints, and this setting feels too intimate to bring that in to ruin it.
Sure, Maddie and I can’t touch. We have to pretend we mean nothing to each other, but it’s still dinner. It’s still a date.
“Partly,” she says. “But it’s also… well…”
“Well?”
She gets adorably nervous.
My mind gallops ahead to a thousand moments in the future, instances in which Madison will show the same nerves. I see her courtside for one of our kid’s first basketball games or sitting in the crowd for a musical performance, her maternal focus clear on her features.
“You can talk to me,” I tell her.
“I know. I feel that way, too, which is crazy, isn’t it? Why should I feel comfortable doing that?”
“Thewhyof it isn’t important to me,” I say, my tone getting grim.
If we venture into thewhyof us, the conversation will veer toward the secret I’m barely containing inside myself. She doesn’t know that I’m superimposing a wedding dress over her regular clothes every second, unable to stop. She doesn’t know I can almost feel the floor against my knee, the pressure I’ll experience when I propose.
