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Add that to the list of inappropriate conversation topics.
Jesse frowns and it takes putting my hand to my forehead to understand why. I was frowning at him first. I smile instead, a duplicate of his closed-lip version.
He says, “I’ll call you whatever you want me to call you.”
With his deep voice and the frown still marking up his face like my red pen on an undergraduate’s essay, he doesn’t sound the least bit accommodating. More sinister. I lean back in my chair.
Who are you, George’s friend?
He shifts in his chair, looking immediately uncomfortable. The bartender, who’d stopped in front of us, must feel the awkwardness settling because he turns on his heel and walks away. Jesse drops his gaze to the bar, flushing, andoh. I was so busy feeling nervous, not wanting to come, I never considered that he might also be nervous. But as he turns away from me, grabbing a few cocktail napkins and dabbing at the water ring around his glass like he’s defusing a bomb, huffing another sigh that upon reflection could be a deep, steadying breath, I’d say yeah. Jesse is just as nervous as I am.
He clears his throat. “What do you prefer?” he asks. “Lulu or Eloise?”
My mother has called me Lu or Lulu since before I can remember. Eloise has never felt like my name. More a label, the wrong one, slapped on a bag to say “these are caramels,” when they’re Fun Dip or Fizzy Pops or...gosh, anything but caramels.
Brian was the only person who ever called me Eloise. Even before we were anything but colleagues, he’d insisted. Lulu was a child’s name, according to Brian. Eloise was distinguished. I let him, desperate for someone like Dr. Brian Mason of Lancaster University to think I was distinguished. Now, every time he called me Eloise feels like a betrayal. Brian trying to fit a square peg into a round hole and the square peg desperately wishing she could wear down her hard edges to fit.
“I like Lulu.” Even now, saying it sounds like asking for permission.
“Sure, Lulu.”
A bloom, something affectionate and warm, floats in my chest. He flattens his sweater down his torso, navy blue merino wool giving way under his hand, hinting at the muscle definition underneath. In this light, his brown eyes are a perfect contrast. I can’t tell if Jesse is the type of man who would pick a sweater that purposely complements his eyes, but I’m tickled by it either way. His forearms fill out the sleeves, his biceps stretch the fabric. As I follow the wool over the wide line of his shoulders, I notice a square of white cardboard sticking out of the back of his collar.
He’s left the tag on.
“Were you planning on returning that sweater?” I ask, my hand halfway to his collar.
He eyes that hand like I’m holding a knife. “Uh...no. What?”
I give the tag a tug, snapping it off.The Gap. $59.99.
“Tag.” I crumple it in my fist.
Jesse makes a mumbled sound likeoh no, patting at the back of his shirt, his face turning a deeper and deeper shade of purple. This date is a bit of a disaster. I reach for whatever I can to save it.
“George said you were a firefighter?”
He blinks through a moment of pointed silence. “Yes.” His tone is flat, flatter than normal. Final. “He said you have a PhD in witchcraft? At the university?” Jesse frowns like that’s not right.
I take a big gulp of my beer, now warmer than it should be after sitting.
“I have a PhD in the history of witchcraft. I’m not a witch.”
He nods very seriously.
“That would be cool, though.”
He keeps nodding.
I can feel the silence threatening to descend again like a funeral shroud ready to declare this evening dead.
“I read that candles are one of the top five causes of house fires,” I offer.
Jesse blinks, his brow furrowing. To be fair, I’m not sure what I expected him to do with that information. “I really love scented candles.” I laugh like,what can you do?“But like what if they...start a fire in my house...” I trail off. It’s either that or I physically restrain myself from speaking.
“As long as you leave twelve inches of space around the candle and don’t leave it unattended, you should be safe,” he says.
“Oh. Great. Thanks.” I take another deep pull of my beer. At the very least I can walk away with this important safety tip.
