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I watch his face as he eats, waiting for any sort of reaction.
“Well?” I ask, leaning forward.
“I don’t hate it.”
I laugh, shaking my head. “You don’t have to eat it if you don’t want to.”
“I know that, Luce. It’s really not bad, just not what I’m used to. That doesn’t mean I don’t like it.”
“Okay.” I nod.
We eat, and Wyatt teases me about the amount of sushi I can eat, saying he’s impressed. I shrug and he reaches across the table, his fingertips lightly brushing mine.
“So,” he says, “how’re things with your mom?”
I stare at our not-quite-touching fingers and shrug. “The same. I just . . . I can’t figure out how to talk to her.”
“Was it easy to talk to your dad?”
“Yeah. Dad and I had a sort of unspoken understanding.”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know how to really explain it. He just got me, you know? He always seemed to know what to say. It was just easier with him.”
“Have you tried talking to your mom like you would talk to him?”
I look up from our hands and into his eyes. The low lighting in the restaurant brings out the amber flecks in his eyes, somehow making me feel warm.
“No. But maybe I should.”
Wyatt nods, smiling a little. “Yeah. Maybe you should.”
“Okay, wanna hear something that doesn’t have anything to do with my mom or my dead dad?”
Wyatt laughs softly and leans back in his seat, crossing his arms over his chest. The tips of my fingers instantly feel cold and I pull my hand off the table and into my lap.
“Absolutely I do.” He smiles.
So, I tell him about my journals and how I’ve started writing again. I tell him how I’ve even pulled out my laptop and have been using it for something other than watching cheesy romantic comedies on Netflix. And the more I talk about it, the lighter I feel. I watch Wyatt’s face as I talk, the way his eyes crinkle at the corners when he laughs, how he purses his lips to hide his smile.
“What?” I finally ask. “Am I talking too much? Sorry, sometimes I ramble when I’m excited.”
Wyatt shakes his head, his hand reaching across the table again. At some point during my rant, I must’ve put my hands on the table and Wyatt has just casually laced his fingers through mine. Like this is normal. Like they belong there.
“Don’t do that,” he says softly.
“Don’t do what?”
“Diminish yourself like that.”
“I wasn’t—”
“You were. Don’t do it again. Especially not with me, okay?”
“Uh, okay? You just . . . I wasn’t sure if you were listening to me.”
“Lucy”—Wyatt smiles the softest, most adorable smile as he shakes his head—“I was listening. Well, okay, I was sort of listening. You just . . . you’re so cute when you talk about things you’re passionate about. You use your hands when you talk and your face shows every single emotion you’re feeling. Your eyes get ridiculously bright and it’s insanely adorable. I was listening, I promise, but god, you can be distracting.”
