of pleasure that gives me gratified flutters. He has to swallow a bite before he replies, “Why do you think? You didn’t show up. The whole world was falling apart.”
I snort again. (I really have to stop doing that.) “That seems a little melodramatic.”
“Maybe. But that’s how it felt.” He gives me a small, sardonic smile that’s exactly like him. “Pretty pathetic, wouldn’t you say?”
“No. I wouldn’t say that. I felt the same way.”
“Which was why you went out on a date with some other guy.”
“I made the date before I got the package from you. Was I supposed to just wait around and hope you’d deign to contact me again?”
“No. You weren’t. You did exactly what you were supposed to do. You lived your life. I’m the one moping around, unable to move on or get anything done because I can’t get a girl out of my head.”
I’d just brought my glass of wine up to my lips, and I make the stupidest little giggle over the rim.
He cocks an eyebrow. “You’re laughing at me now?”
“Not laughing at. Just... laughing.”
“Okay.” He reaches over and tucks some hair behind my ear in that way he always does when it falls into my face.
He never lets me hide behind my hair. He always wants to see me.
And, despite all my wise advice to myself about playing it safe, about how a man like Richard isn’t likely to fall for an invisible person like me, his feelings are evidently real. They seem to be anyway.
After a moment, he goes back to eating. “So how was your date?”
“Richard.”
“What? It’s just a question.”
“Sure it is.”
“So it was a bad date then? The guy couldn’t hold a candle to me?”
I roll my eyes in response to his teasing tone, but I tell him the truth. “It wasn’t bad. He’s a good guy. And...”
“And what?”
“And on a different day, in a different situation, I’d probably be excited about him.”
“You would?” He almost—almost—sounds jealous.
“Yes. I would.” I shake my head and give his arm a little nudge. “But it’s not a different day. It’s not a different situation. And I mostly wanted the date to be over.”
He smiles, relaxed again. “Then why did you go on the date to begin with?”
“You know why. You just said it. I was trying to live my life rather than waiting around for you to make a move when you’d done nothing but keep me at arm’s length.”
“I was trying to keep you at arm’s length,” he corrects. “I just wasn’t doing a very good job of it. You must have picked up on it. You must have sensed how I was feeling.”
“Maybe. But you forget I don’t have a lot of experience with men, and girls fool themselves about guys all the time. I didn’t want to do that. I was trying to be smart. And since you’d never said anything—or even given me your phone number—I wasn’t going to presume.”
He chuckles, finishing his serving of pasta. Every last bite. Then he picks up his wine and takes a sip. He doesn’t say anything, but his eyes are very warm and soft as he watches me over the top of his glass.
“What?” I demand, when it’s clear he’s not going to speak.
“Nothing. Just can’t really believe this is happening.”
I almost choke as I realize he must be feeling exactly what I am right now. “Me either,” I admit. Then, in an attempt to stop myself from melting into a puddle of sappy emotion, I nod toward the stove. “You want anymore? I’ve had all I’m going to eat. You might as well finish what’s in the pan.”
He does. We eat in contented silence for a few minutes until our plates and glasses are empty.
I’m sitting at my kitchen table when it happens.
Sometimes memory hits you out of the blue, brought on by a scent or a taste or a stray snippet of melody or a few words lifted out of the past, echoing into the present. Maybe it’s the carbonara. The familiar scent and taste of it. Or maybe it’s the way Richard scrapes his fork against his plate to capture the last bit of pancetta. Or maybe it’s the big candle I lit in the middle of the table, set on a handmade mosaic holder that used to be my mom’s.
Whatever prompts it, the memory swallows me up without warning. It swells from my heart to fill my chest. It rises into my throat. It burns in my eyes.