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“Okay, now you’re making me want, like, ten kids,” I tease.
“Are children on your radar at all?” he asks, though I can’t tell if he’s simply making conversation or vetting my stepmother potential.
“I think so?” I say. I’ve always loved the idea of having at least one kid. Maybe two. Nothing too big or overwhelming. Enough to experience motherhood in all its glory without sacrificing my career or passions. I’m not sure if it’s possible to have it all, but I’d like to think I can give it the old college try. “Sometimes I don’t know if I’d be a good parent, though. I don’t know the first thing about kids. Never had any younger siblings or cousins. Never babysat.”
“Used to feel the same way,” he says with a pained smile. He looks down at the flickering candle centerpiece between us. “Everything changed after I met the right person. You figure it out as you go along. Together.”
There’s an ache in my chest that accompanies his words.
“Anyway.” He tosses back the remainder of his whiskey. “Enough about me. You have any siblings? I know you’re from Ohio.”
We’re back to small talk now . . . and a topic I was hoping to avoid.
“I have one sister,” I say.
“Are the two of you close?”
“Too close.” I chuff. “It wasn’t enough that we were womb-mates . . . now we’re roommates.”
He squints, as if he doesn’t get the joke.
“We’re twins,” I say. I release a slow exhale.
“Ah. I see. Identical?”
I nod. It feels good to be honest with him about something for a change. There’s an unexpected lightness washing over me now, like I’ve peeled back a layer. The layer may be as thin as cellophane, but it’s still a layer.
“My mother has sisters who are identical twins,” he says. “They must be in their sixties now . . . never married, never had kids, still living together in a little town outside Milwaukee. I guess they never learned how to do life without each other.”
“Sounds like your mother is more than making up for that . . . living in Paris and all.”
Our server stops by. “Your food will be out shortly. Would you like another round of drinks in the meantime?”
Roman holds my gaze from across the table, waiting for me to answer first.
“I’d love another spritz,” I say.
Roman lifts his glass and nods. “I’ll take another Macallan.”
The night is young, yet it feels like time is moving faster than it should.
“Tell me more about your mother,” I say. “I’m intrigued. She sounds like someone who marches to her own beat.”
He exhales a breathy semblance of a laugh. “That’s putting it mildly.”
“A divorcée who up and moves to France and marries a guy half her age has my vote. Not a lot of people could do something so bold.”
“She’s probably more reckless than bold,” he says, “but I have no doubt she’d be flattered by your words.”
“Tell me about her. Does she wear red lipstick and bateau-striped shirts? Does she chain-smoke and read Baudelaire and Verlaine? I’m imagining this fabulous, sophisticated woman. Paint me a picture.”
His eyes glint with amusement as he studies me with his devilishly handsome dark gaze, one that drips over me slow like honey and heavy as steel at the same time.
Our server stops by with our drinks, but Roman’s penetrating fixation never wavers. In fact, it’s as if I’m the only thing in the entire room worthy of his attention. For the first time in forever, I feel seen. Truly seen.
Something is happening between us.
Something I can’t describe because there are no words to accurately convey it.
For a moment, I’m frozen, all thoughts suddenly abandoning my mind and leaving nothing in their place. I don’t know that I could form a sentence if I tried. It’s all just . . . blank.
“Thank you,” he tells her, breaking the intensity that fastened me into place a mere second ago. He waits for her to leave before directing his attention my way once more. “Her name is Claudia, and she’s not much of a smoker. Not much of a reader either. She’s adventurous. A young soul. After my father passed and I grew up and started a family of my own, I don’t think she really knew what to do with herself, so she started fresh somewhere new. I always tease her and tell her she’s in her second act.”
“Is she happy?”
“Happier than I’ve ever seen her.”
“Then that’s all that matters,” I say.
“I just hate to see anyone take advantage of her, that’s all. She’s a generous person, very personable, easy to like. She tends to attract a certain . . . type.”
“She sounds nothing like my mom,” I say. “Mine has never left Ohio. Still lives in the house I grew up in, and she’ll never leave it. Her definition of adventure is staying in Cincinnati for a weekend at the Embassy Suites. She might hit up Columbus every great once in a while if she’s feeling audacious. She’s terrified of New York, though. She doesn’t visit if she can avoid it.”
