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I like this idea a lot. “Who am I to argue with that?” I toss the mitt over my shoulder without care and hurry to the couch to wait and be served.
I smile because he makes me want to smile, sometimes too much, making my cheeks hurt. Very much like right now. Flopping onto the couch, I cross my legs like a pretzel. I hear drawers opening and closing, silverware clanging, and a wine cork pop open.
“You need any help?” I holler because I see him turning in circles as he looks for stuff.
“I got it,” he says, then flashes me a self-assured smile. “Hope you like lo mein.” He hands me a plate along with a fork and napkin. “And I bought a sauvignon blanc because I have no idea what goes with Chinese food, and I like this one.”
“Thank you. This looks great. I’m starved.”
“Dig in.”
When he joins me on the couch, that comfortable silence exists between us again, surrounding us as we eat. But tonight, I find myself wanting so much more, wanting to talk, even if just to joke. He’s quick and clever and makes me laugh.
“Did you know you have a bull’s-eye on your chest?” He lifts his gaze from my chest to my eyes as he takes a bite of the saucy noodles.
“Oh,” I say, looking down at my T-shirt, “it’s from college. My roommate has one, too. We made them as an experiment.”
He chuckles. “I’m sure you proved your hypothesis true if the experiment was to draw every guy’s attention straight to your breasts.”
I cover my mouth with my hand so it doesn’t get ugly when I burst out laughing. After catching my breath, I ask, “So it worked?”
“One hundred percent, baby. By the way, you don’t need a bull’s-eye to get a guy’s attention.”
“Are we still talking science here?”
“Maybe chemistry. What do you think?”
I set my fork down and take a drink of wine, keeping eye contact. “I’m staying neutral on that subject.”
He narrows his eyes at me, but a wry smile appears. “Playing it safe will never get you anywhere.”
“Sounds like you know from experience.” I finish my last bite and set my plate on the coffee table. Angling my body to face him, I take my wine in hand. “Tell me about you. You’ve been good at keeping your life a secret.”
Stabbing his fork into his noodles before spinning it around, he darkens his expression, though I know he’ll try to cover it. That’s what he does. He has secrets and a past that certain topics bring to light. Most wouldn’t notice the look he gets in his eyes or the way his smile falls, even in the briefest of moments, but I do.
“I haven’t kept my life a secret. You know all about me.” He sets his own plate down and takes a sip of wine.
“Okay, let me rephrase. Tell me about your past, your childhood, growing up in Manhattan because I know you did, though you don’t talk about it, and went so far as to tell Rachel you grew up in Kansas.”
“I don’t talk about it because it’s uninteresting and stereotypical.”
“Nothing about you is stereotypical,” I add.
“I think that’s my line.” He shifts to face me, his long legs stretching across the couch and landing next to my hip.
I turn and straighten mine, mirroring him. “Is that what you do? You feed lines to girls?”
“Not to you. I speak only the truth.”
“I’m special, then?” I prod his hips with my toes for more information, pressing for the details that make up who he is.
He takes another long sip, his eyelids dipping closed to savor the drink. After a few seconds, he looks at me with a small smile. “I don’t know how to answer that.”
“That’s not the part I want to know about anyway. Why don’t you like to talk about your past?”
He looks uncomfortable for the first time since I’ve known him, other than at his aunt’s funeral. “I don’t like to do the whole woe-is-me thing because I’ve had a good life, a spoiled one. I’ll come off like I’m complaining, and I’m not.”
“Then don’t put on a production or say what you think you should to appease me. Just share who you are. Friend to friend.”
He looks down as a soft chuckle rumbles around his chest. “Friend to friend,” he repeats with an amused scoff. Swinging his legs off the couch, he stands and walks to the bookcase near the door. He peruses the titles, not looking at me. “I was a rich kid from Manhattan. I went to the best schools in the city, and I partied too hard.”
“Where I’m from, that isn’t stereotypical at all—”
“It is here. I’m sure Jim was no different. I might have met him, but I can’t remember.”
I don’t like Jim being dragged into the conversation, but I understand why he was. I’ve never liked to think about that part of Jim’s life. I know Charlie is right, and that hurts a little, but I remain quiet, encouraging him to continue. I may not want to talk about Jim’s life, but I do want Charlie to talk about his.
