“Maybe a glass of white wine?” The apple juice of adult beverages, Gray called it. I might as well have asked for a sippy lid or a red plastic cup.
He signaled the server. “A glass of the Pouilly-Fumé, please. And a Sexton’s.”
The waiter disappeared with our order.
“So.” I smiled brightly, determined to make the best of my impulsive invitation. “You’re in the business school.”
“Yes.” Apparently good manners required he continue, because he added, “Second year. Mostly online.”
“A nontraditional student.”
“Very traditional, I assure you.”
Another joke? Impossible to tell. “I meant... What is it you do, exactly?”
“I’m a regulatory consultant. And you’re a writer.”
I squirmed, embarrassed. “I haven’t published anything yet.” A short story in a literary magazine. Some fanfic online.
“But you write.”
“Yes.” One word. Oh God, I was starting to sound like him.
“I believe that qualifies you as a writer.”
Which was quite possibly the nicest thing anybody had said to me in a while.
The server reappeared with our drinks. I gulped my wine, a warmth spreading in my cheeks that had nothing to do with the alcohol. “How long have you been a consultant?”
“Five years.”
“You look older.” I set down my glass hastily. “Not that you look old. Exactly. It’s the suit.”Worse and worse.
The waiter gave me a sympathetic look. “Ready to order?”
I smiled at him gratefully. “Yeah, thanks. What do you recommend?”
We had a nice chat about the menu before he left. I tookanother sip of wine, which did not taste like any drink I’d had at any graduate student party ever.
“Thirty,” Tim Woodman said unexpectedly.
I swallowed. “Sorry?”
“My age. If that’s what you were asking.”
“I wasn’t asking.” I was totally asking. “I’m twenty-six.”
“Returning to school, then.”
“Um, no. I’m kind of a late starter. We moved around a lot as kids, and I had to repeat a grade.” When our mother died and we moved in with Aunt Em and Uncle Henry. Not to mention the years I’d wasted when I should have been working on my master’s thesis. All my energy and creativity had gone into nurturing Gray’s writing, running his errands, doing his laundry, offering little meals as encouragement on the altar of his genius...
I reached for my wineglass. Tim Woodman regarded me across the table, eyes unreadable behind his silver-rimmed specs.
“Not that there’s anything wrong with taking time off,” I assured him. “My sister, Toni—she started at KU in August—anyway, she tried to talk me into letting her take a gap year after high school to ‘see the world.’ ” I put air quotes around it. “Which I totally get. I mean, look at me. I’m in Ireland. But I thought it would help Toni to stay close to home, at least for her first year. We didn’t have the most stable childhood.”
He didn’t say anything.
“So, what about you?” I prompted. “Did you see the world?”
