you…you forget. You forget that there’s another way. Sorry, I’m not making sense—”
“You are,” I say fervently, because what he’s describing is exactly Ryan and me. “You forgive the person and you endlessly rationalize and you forget…”
“That there are other people out there,” says Seb softly, and as he meets my eyes, I feel a sudden tightening in my stomach. Other people. What does he mean? Me?
No, don’t be stupid, I scold myself at once. Of course he doesn’t mean me. He probably means, like, there are loads of people on Tinder.
“On Tinder?” I hear myself saying idiotically, and a flicker of amusement passes over his face.
“I wasn’t thinking of Tinder.”
His warm green-brown eyes are traveling questioningly over my face and I gaze back helplessly, my throat too clenched up with nerves to speak, my thoughts a chaotic whirl: This is it, this is it….Wait, is this it?
A bleep suddenly sounds from Seb’s phone and we both glance down automatically. I see the name Briony flash onto the screen and feel a sudden qualm. Maybe this is her apologizing and wanting to make up.
“You should probably…” I gesture awkwardly at the screen. “It might be…Don’t mind me.”
Wordlessly, Seb opens the text and reads it. It’s quite long and I can see lots of capitals and exclamation marks.
“Right,” he says at last, wryly. “Well, I have been fired. Quite conclusively.”
“I’m sorry,” I say again. “Really.”
I try to look as heartfelt and sorry as I can, but I’m not sure I’m doing a very good job, because there’s a twinkle in Seb’s gaze. He puts his phone away and there’s a breathless beat.
“So, I was wondering,” he says at last. “Would you—maybe—like to have dinner sometime?”
Nineteen
Forty-eight hours later I’m sitting with Seb in an Italian restaurant, and I don’t quite know how I’ve got through the last two days. I’ve worked in the shop and started some Christmas shopping and mended the loo when it broke (Dad taught us all elementary plumbing when we were children). Outwardly I’ve appeared normal. Relaxed, even. But all the time I’ve been thinking, Dinner with Seb…oh my God…Dinner with Seb…oh my God…
Then I went the other way and worried that I’d suddenly, inexplicably, find him unattractive. But here we are at last, sitting at a table in the golden glow of an overhead light, and I can’t take my gaze off him. Seb’s eyes are fixed on mine too. And it’s so obvious what both of us want, I don’t know how I ever doubted it for a moment. We’ve both ordered linguine with clams and discussed wine a bit and even the weather, but that’s felt like the subtext to a different, silent, much more charged communication.
As the wine arrives, though, Seb clearly decides to become more talkative.
“Tell me about yourself,” he says, as the waiter disappears. “Tell me about Fixie.” He toasts me and I clink back and sip. The wine is crisp and delicious and I feel like having quite a lot of it.
“What do you want to know?” I laugh, mentally putting together my brief, official “Fixie Farr’s life so far” paragraph.
“Everything,” says Seb emphatically. “Everything. Clearly you’re an Olympic skating champion, for a start. Your family must be really proud of you.”
And I know he didn’t mean to, but he’s already skewered me. He’s hit my sore spot. Skating isn’t in my official paragraph—usually I edit it right out.
“Kind of,” I say, and I shoot him a bright smile, but I know it’s not convincing.
“Kind of,” echoes Seb slowly.
“Let’s talk about you,” I parry, and I see him digest the fact that I’m batting him away. He takes a few gulps of wine, his eyes flickering with thought.
“I have an idea,” he says at last. “Shall we be honest with each other? Shall we tell each other the Stuff?”
“The Stuff?” I echo blankly.
“You know what I mean.” He looks directly at me. “The Stuff. The stuff inside your heart that’s made you who you are, that you think about at night. Good and bad. Between ourselves.”
“Oh, that stuff,” I say with a light laugh, because I’m suddenly afraid of baring my soul. What if he doesn’t like my soul? What if he thinks, Sheesh! Never expected her soul to be like that!
“Yes, that stuff.” He plants his elbows on the table, his face lit up with that eager, interested expression I’ve come to know. “Who is Fixie Farr? Tell me.”