“You look beautiful,” I say.So lame.
She murmurs “Thank you,” with a small smile and maybe even a slight blush.
I thought I had a plan. I’ve been turning this evening over in my head the whole day at the store. While she was unpacking flannel shirts, humming along to “Down With Disease.” Then singing the whole lyrics to “If I Could” while rearranging our different grades of maple syrup in hay-filled wooden cases, sprinkling individually wrapped maple candies around.
“Any idea when and where Phish are playing next?”Nice. Make it seem casual but bring it back to a moment when we shared a connection.
Looking at the menu, she answers right away, “Down south for now, Upstate New York in a couple of months.” Her eyebrows narrow, as if she’s hesitating between the cod with braised bok choi and the gnocchi with locally foraged mushrooms.
Me? I’m stricken. By how she knows about all of Phish’s upcoming concerts. By our familiarity—how she answers without looking at me. It’s almost as if we’re an old couple already, in tune with each other. I’m not sure I like it this early in what I’m determined to make a relationship.
Lowering her menu with one finger, I force her to look at me.
“What?” she asks, an adorable smile on her face. “This menu is… awesome.” She takes my finger in hers to halt my interruption, and all I can think about is how soft her skin is and how I want this moment to last forever. How I want my whole fucking life to be like this. Easy, playful, sexy.
“Listen to this: ‘Sustainably farmed in Vermont and humanely harvested locally, these chops melt in your mouth. Served with a generous side of Cortland apples sauteed in ghee and lightly deglazed in apple cider vinegar. Suggested pairing: Make itclassic with a Finger Lakes Riesling or keep it focused and hyperlocal with a Stillpoint hard cider.’ I think I’ll have that.”
She finally looks up at me, then looks down at our clasped fingers, hardly blushes, then clears her throat and sets her menu down.
Then, instead of letting go of my finger, she intertwines our hands, her silk touch keeping me captive. “How about you?” she asks. “I think you’d like the flank steak. It’s marinated in olive oil and…” She continues, but only her melodic voice makes it to my consciousness—the lyrics are lost to me. I don’t need to know what the menu says. If my wife thinks I’ll like it, then I most certainly will.
I’m hooked on the fact that our hands are now rested on the table, although we’re secluded enough that no PDA is warranted—not that it ever was the point of this outing. Further, I’m drawing circles inside her palmand she’s letting me, and not only that but are those tiny goose bumps on her arm?
“Right?” she says, startling me. Then, “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Sounds great.”
She removes her hand, folds our menus together, and rattles out our order to Chloe.
“So Phish…” I start once we’re alone again. “We’ll go, obviously.” I want to tell her we’ll make a weekend out of it. Maybe a weekend date. One room or two?
Maybe reading my mind, she picks up her glass of wine, leaving the other hand on the table—a temptation too hard to resist.
I place a finger on the inside of her wrist, marveling at the soft beat of her pulse.
I’m not going to talk about last night. Of course I’m not. But we should address the cupid in the room. I’m going to retrace our steps a bit, do what I should have done days ago.
“Remember that first evening, the day we got the puppies?” Her pulse accelerates under my fingers. I didn’t mean to do this evaluation of her feelings by reading her pulse, I swear I didn’t, but it’s brilliant. She definitely remembers.
I hesitate only briefly. “Was it my imagination or did you… did we…” Fuck. Why is it so hard for me to tell Willow that I wish we hadn’t been interrupted? That I want to know if she feels the same way I do? “When Lane came in, were we about to—”
“Oh my god aren’t you two just a-do-ra-ble,” Cassandra coos as she walks to us, beaming. “Our love birds…” She leans toward us and grabs our hands. “I amsohappy that you are finally together.” She turns to Willow. “Did you tell him how long it’s been?” Willow turns crimson, her gaze darting between Cass and me.
Ignoring Willow’s embarrassment, Cass turns to me. “This woman has been crushing on you for…everrrrr…” she says, dragging the word out.
My eyes must be bugging out of their sockets because she continues, “I know, right? It’s like… how? How did you not see that? What took you so long?”
Well… what does she mean,forever? Andcrushing? What iscrushing, specifically?
Cass laughs and turns to Willow. “I’m glad you didn’t follow your friends’ advice and move on, sweetie.” She grabs our hands and lays them on each other, the way they were just a minute ago. “Tenacious, this one,” she says and leaves.
“She was kidding, right?” I ask under my breath. Because if she wasn’t, what kind of a fucking moron am I?
Adorable guilt is painted all over my wife’s features.
Well now, this changes everything.
I’ll think about what kind of a fucking stupid idiot I’ve been later. Now’s not the time for introspection.
