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“Anyway, we had a chat and are going withit never happened,” I finish awkwardly.
Nate has a way of penetrating me with a silent stare until I begin to question my entire existence.
“You seem bothered,” I say to cut the unnerving quiet.
He shrugs. “Seems a shit thing for Jack to do. Especially to a friend.”
I put my utensils down. “How about us? Are we friends?”
“Yes,” he answers. Cautious now as he senses the shift in my demeanor.
“Because I hadn’t decided whether I should bring it up, but sincewe’re talking about friends kissing friends…I’m not trying to play the home-wrecker.”
You could float a feather in the stillness of his expression. Unreadable, except that I’ve come to discern his flatness as a mask for turbulence and unease.
“I don’t think I’ve asked you to,” he says tightly.
“But you did try to kiss me. And don’t say you were drunk, because the other guy beat you to it.”
Only a twitch at the corner of his jaw gives away his discomfort.
When Nate responds, it’s with slow, measured words. “There was an organic moment. It wasn’t premeditated, and we didn’t act on it.”
“Because we were interrupted.”
“It was a choice, wasn’t it?”
I get it now. This is how he deflects.
“Tell me something,” I say. “Or tell me to piss off if it’s none of my business. But I’ve watched you two. Listened to the way she talks about you. And I can’t for the life of me figure how you and Yvonne make sense.”
Leaning back in his chair again, he pushes his plate aside to buy himself time to consider. “Why do any of us get together? We’re all looking in other people for something missing in us.”
I fall quiet, mulling over his response. It reminds me of that song about how love is trying to stitch ourselves back together with our ancient other halves, and every dysfunctional relationship is just us trying to force together two pieces that don’t fit. Which is kind of true and also cereal box philosophy.
“What’s she got that’s filling that hole?” I ask slowly.
“Yvonne is uncomplicated. Independent. Low maintenance. It’s that stability, I suppose, I’m attracted to.” He pauses for a moment. “Although she’s younger than I usually go for.”
“She’s twenty-two, no? And you’re, what, twenty-four?”
He nods. “I tend to date older women.”
“How much older?”
“Quite a bit older,” he admits. “Mid to late thirties, typically. They’re self-sufficient. Fully formed. Aren’t tilting at this whim and that.”
“Sounds more like a matter of effort than some romantic idea of your other half.”
“Perhaps.” Nate reaches up to run a hand through his hair. “The women I’m with don’t have any expectations of me, Yvonne included. I appreciate that.”
This might be the most unfiltered admission about himself I’ve managed to wrangle out of Nate since I met him. A rare glimpse under the skin of someone who’s usually so enigmatic. He’s not deceptive, exactly. More like vaguely elusive. It’s both attractive and frustrating.
“You don’t like her,” he muses, eyeing me over the rim of his glass.
“That’s not true at all. Honestly, I hardly know her. She’s nice to me when I’m around. She seems outspoken. Witty. But I can’t exactly call her a friend yet. Anyway, regardless of my feelings for her, I still respect the line in the sand,” I say in a frank tone. “You’re dating her. That makes you hers. I respect that, and I don’t want to be dragged into a situation I don’t belong in. So with that said, there can’t be any more ‘organic moments’ between us. What happened at the cemetery was wrong, and I’d like to make sure it doesn’t happen again.”
Nate’s face reverts to its default position: unreadable.
