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Part IV
49
This Was Why I Was Here
The restaurant was busy. Michael hadn’t been kidding when he said it was popular with the locals. The waitress greeted him by name, making me feel like I was in some sort of romance movie. Any second now, the girl would look down her nose at me and sniff.
But she didn’t. She simply said for us to take a seat in the bar, and the first table free would be for “you and your lady.”
Michael held my hand as he led me to a couch in the centre of the bar area. Glasses clinked; voices rose in a comfortable hum; the smell of Italian cooking wafted out of the swing doors to the kitchen. Through an arched doorway, I could see the diners already seated and eating at red and white checked tables; the clatter of their cutlery sounded out on the air.
I dragged my eyes away from the scene before me, feeling nervous and awkward and not exactly sure of what was expected of me.
My gaze met Michael’s. He sat there, watching me, patiently waiting for me to get my bearings. He hadn’t let go of my hand yet.
Blue so mesmerising held my gaze; I found myself falling deeper into him. As if his eyes were pools of water and I was desperate for a swim. I wasn’t sure what to do with that reaction. But for the life of me, I couldn’t seem to look away.
The restaurant spun lazily around us; people talked in low voices; laughter rang out on the air; the waitress walked past at least a dozen times. And Michael and I sat there staring at each other as if no one else existed in the world.
“Your hands are soft,” he said.
“Yours are big,” I offered.
“You know what they say,” he quipped.
I smiled and received a blindingly bright grin in return. I stared at him, and he stared at me and the world around us was forgotten.
His thumb stroked over the back of my hand; his free arm rested along the back of the couch behind me. He leaned his body close as if to protect me from reality. I cupped his wrist, taking his pulse. It was fast and strong.
He chuckled.
“Checking to see if I’m alive?” he asked.
“Checking to see if you’re real,” I whispered.
“I’m real, Trolley Girl.”
“Are you?”
“I’m here. I’ve got you.”
I suddenly felt overwhelmed; he must have sensed it. He let go of my hand, giving me a semblance of space. His arm behind my back resting on the couch stayed close, though. Space, but on his terms only.
I suppressed a smile.
The waitress approached and took us to our table. I had the bolognese. Michael had the cannelloni. I drank a little too much wine; nerves getting the better of me. Michael touched my hand as it rested beside my wine glass on the table.
He touched it more than once as if he couldn’t help himself.
We talked about our childhoods. The pets we’d had. Our favourite colour and movie. His voice wrapped around me like a warm blanket; shutting out the dark doubts that hid in the shadows, waiting.
The candles flickered. We kept getting lost in each others’ gazes. My heart beat too hard; I counted my breaths.
Michael insisted on paying the bill. I let him. I was embarrassed to realise I liked that about him. He opened doors. He pulled back chairs. He chose the wine.
When we stood from the table, he immediately gripped my hand; fingers laced; thumb stroking softly.
It felt good.
