Just a Girl - Becky Monson Page 0,18

the plate lightly away from me.

“Then why did you order it?”

I let out a breath. I can’t exactly tell him that at my real job I’m constantly scrutinized for my body so I need to watch what I eat and that some old hag who calls herself Grace Is Amazing likes to send me emails about how my outfits are unflattering. And no matter how much exercise I do and how healthy I eat, I can’t seem to get rid of these twenty pounds. I can’t tell him, not only because he doesn’t know about my real job, but also because I don’t want him to know. I feel like he will look at me differently. Differently than he’s looking at me right now. Like even the fact that I ordered a salad I didn’t want and am willing to admit it makes me interesting to him.

“I don’t really know why I ordered it. I think it’s a habit.”

Henry looks down at his plate; he’s got his fork in his right hand and a knife in his left. He looks back up at me. “American portions are quite large, aren’t they?”

I smile. “They are.”

“Care to share?” He’s looking straight at me, his eyes inviting.

“Um . . . no, that’s okay,” I say, pulling the salad back in front of me.

“Come on,” he says. Reaching over, he taps the top of my hand with his finger. “That salad looks pathetic, and I have all this food. Share it with me.”

The corners of his lips pulled up into a half smile, his eyes beckoning me. I can’t help myself. I push the salad away again. “Okay, sure,” I say. “Just let me get someone to bring us another plate.” I look over in the direction of the servers’ station to see if I can find John but don’t see him. I’m half-surprised he’s not waiting in the wings ready to pounce anytime Henry looks his way.

“Nah,” Henry says, waving the idea away with his hand. He scooches over in the booth, and then, setting his fork down, he pats the spot next to him. “How about you sit next to me and help me with this?”

I nibble on my bottom lip, looking at Henry and then down at his plate of food. “Okay,” I say as I get up and move over to his side of the table.

I bring my fork with me and I sit down next to him. He smells of citrus and sandalwood, and I sort of want to ditch dinner altogether and just snuggle up to him right here in this booth. I’d make John the server super jealous. He might even throw my drink on me.

“Shall we tuck in?” Henry asks, eyebrows raised as he looks at me.

I’m not sure what that means, but as I see him take a bite of his food, I decide to just follow suit.

We eat in companionable silence for a few minutes, accidentally clashing forks as I go for a bite of an enchilada the same time he does. Not surprisingly, his food is much better than mine, and unlike selfish Thomas who never shares his food with me, Henry is happy to let me share his. He even lets me have the last bite of the chile relleno, which is magnificent in all its cheesy, saucy goodness.

It feels intimate, sitting next to Henry, sharing his food, and it occurs to me that I’ve never done this with anyone before. Holly and I share food all the time, but we usually get plates and split it up. Eating off the same plate together is not something you do on a second date. It seems more like something you do when you’ve been in a relationship for a while, when you’ve established some groundwork. I wouldn’t know; I’ve never really gotten to that stage in a relationship. The stage when you move from a half to a whole. A “we.”

I’m not a “we” with Henry. I know that. But sitting here next to him, sharing his dinner, I sort of feel like I am, or at least I could be.

~*~

“Tell me something you don’t tell a lot of people about yourself,” Henry says as we walk down the street toward my apartment, the lights of downtown Orlando brightening the sidewalk. It rained while we were eating, and the damp air sticks to my skin like sap on a tree. I don’t even care. Nor do I care that my hair has gone