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43
MIA
I never thoughtI would be the sort of girl who liked holding hands, but it turns out that I do like it—a lot. Sebastian takes my hand as we walk to Vesuvio’s, and his is so warm and big that when he holds mine, it sends a shiver straight down to the base of my spine. I wonder how long it’ll last; if I’ll always feel this when our skin touches, or if eventually, it’ll fade.
I hope it doesn’t. I hope there’s a future for us, and that whenever my hand brushes his, I’ll feel something slotting into place in my heart.
“Ready?” he says, squeezing my fingers tightly, like he can tell what I’m thinking. “No training wheels this time, gorgeous.”
I nod, letting him lead me into the restaurant. When he suggested Vesuvio’s for dinner tonight, my first instinct was to deflect, but he had a tough day with the interview, so I broke out the dress I initially bought to wear on our date at this restaurant and let Penny add waves to my hair. By the way Sebastian looked at me when I walked down the stairs, you’d think he was taking me to prom. I half-expected him to pull out a corsage.
Instead of my prom, I went to a robotics competition. My mother was furious—she bought a dress for me and everything, and somehow procured me a date, who I think was the son of one of her friends—but I didn’t give in. I detested St. Catherine Academy and had no desire to spend a whole night dancing with a stranger and the rest of my tiny grade, a couple dozen girls who hated me and thought I was strange at best, or a bitch at worst.
The hostess takes us to a table by the window, and before I can pull out the chair, Sebastian does it for me.
I bite back a smile as I open the menu. “You’ve been dying for the chance to do that, haven’t you?”
His hand encircles my wrist, squeezing lightly. “You know me pretty well by now, you know,” he says.
“I’ve learned most of it against my will.”
He smiles, and I can’t help it; I smile back. “I’ll take it.”
“You’re so dorky sometimes.”
“And yet you like it.”
I give him an exaggerated sigh. “I suppose I do.”
Dork or not, he looks hot as fuck tonight, his light hair slightly damp and curled at the ends, his jawline sharp enough to cut. His father’s old necklace glints in the hollow of his throat, framed on either side by his floral-patterned shirt, unbuttoned at the top. He’s tanner than when I first started to stay with him; the practices and afternoon games are treating him well. I realize after a moment that I’m gazing at him instead of the menu.
“You’re staring,” he says slyly. “The concept of a dinner date can’t be that foreign to you.”
“I might as well be on Mars.”
“Come on.”
“I’m serious! I’ve never sat down at a fancy table like this, across from someone I liked.” I take a sip of water. “How about you?”
“I dated a bit in high school. Up until now in college, not so much.” He sets down his menu. “You look stunning, by the way.”
I glance down at my dress, automatically adjusting it. “I bought this back when you first asked me. Well, the second time you asked me.”
His smile softens. “I’m glad you kept it.”
When the server comes around, we order a bottle of wine to split, a burrata appetizer, and our entrees; we both opt for fish, although he picks the salmon and I pick the grouper. It’s nice, sitting with him, enjoying a glass of perfectly chilled white wine. I can use the break after the hours I spent focusing on work earlier. By the way he sighs, settling more comfortably into his chair, I think he’s thinking the same thing. He didn’t just have the interview, after all; he also had an afternoon game. At least they won today, and he went 2-for-3, with a home run. I made sure to check as soon as it ended.
“How did it go?” I ask. “I’m sorry I wasn’t around; Professor Santoro came home from her trip early and Alice was all stressed about impressing her.”
The conversation I had with Professor Santoro returns to the front of my mind. It was nice to tell her about Sebastian, but the way she spoke about the future hurt. She’s lucky that her husband is also in science, so at least they have that in common.
“It’s okay,” he says. He scrubs his hand over his face. “But it wasn’t good.”
“Oh,” I say. “I’m sorry.”
“And the stupid photographs from that practice are all over Twitter, apparently. Which—it’s not negative, you know? I’m sure some of the comments are, even though I’m not even doing anything, but most of them aren’t. I just hate that they’re out there in the first place.”
I nudge my foot against his underneath the table. “Why wasn’t the interview good?”
