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She nods, looking pleased.
“Adam is a wonderful preacher,” my mother adds, and I scrutinize the woman across from me for her reaction.
When her eyes meet mine, there’s a sparkle there, and a certain excitement inside me starts to grow. Suddenly, I can see so much more of our future. I see her standing next to me on Sunday. Before my sermons, we can greet the congregation together. Serving meals on Thanksgiving. Praying together.
It’s promising, but it’s still from the outside looking in.
“Pass the ketchup, please,” Caleb says, knocking my shoulder, and as I glance over at the bottle sitting next to Lucy, it feels as if I’ve been abruptly snatched out of a fantasy. And for the thousandth time this week, I think about the pink hair and chipped black nail polish of the woman I shared a fifteen-minute meal with two weeks ago.
“Yes,” I mutter, grabbing the bottle and practically tossing it at my brother.
As Lucy strikes up a conversation with Briar, I try to refocus my mind on the possibilities of the woman across from me, but it’s like trying to start a fire with wet matches. Nothing comes.
Instead, I think about the way Sage fiddled with the ring in her lip. Or how her eyes twinkled in my direction as she passed me a bite of her breakfast.
Irritability swells behind every memory of her because it’s been two weeks and I still go back to that moment when I know in my rational mind that it means nothing and I will literally never see her again.
And yet…the pipe-dream fantasies of her feel a little less perfect from the outside looking in but probably a bit more fun the other way around as well.
Looking up from my empty plate, I notice Lucy’s is nearly empty too. She sets her fork down and places her napkin over what’s left of her meatloaf, and I seize my chance.
“Would you like to go for a walk?” I ask.
With a tight smile that doesn’t reach her eyes, she nods. “Sure.”
“Go on, you two,” my mother chirps excitedly as she jumps from her seat to clean up our plates. Then I lead Lucy toward the front door. Once we step out into the warm spring night air, she shoves her hands in the pockets of her long, cotton dress.
“It was nice of your mother to invite me to dinner,” she says as we make our way down the long brick-paved drive.
“It probably should have been me. I’m sorry,” I reply. My hand itches to touch her back or arm.
“Did you want me to come to dinner?” she asks, glancing up at me.
I clear my throat. “Of course I did.”
When she doesn’t respond, I notice the way she nods to herself, and I wish I knew what she was thinking. Why am I so bad at this? Breakfast with Pink Hair was so easy—
No. Stop it.
“The truth is,” I reply, trying for sincerity, “I’m so busy I forget to have a personal life.”
She chuckles quietly. “Same.”
“But I really like you,” I say, forcing the words out in hopes they feel truer when I speak them.
They don’t.
Lucy stops and turns toward me. “I like you too, Adam…”
Her voice trails off and I sense abut.
My brow arches as I wait her out.
“But…” she says, finally, shuffling her feet and looking off into the distance instead of at me. “I don’t really know you.”
“Then have dinner with me again. We can get to know each other.”
“Will we?” This conversation is taking a strange turn as if she knows something I don’t. Something about me.
