“Why does that question always feel so intimidating?” He brushes his knuckles against his cheek, swiping his thumb along his jaw.
“Because human experience cannot be summed up in a few sentences,” I offer, “but it’s still polite to try.”
He nods, side-eyeing me in a totally curious, stirring way that seems effortless to him despite the way it makes my heart pound.“Fair enough,” he begins. “I’m twenty-nine. I’m a financial analyst.” He puts up a hand, as if to stop me from interrupting—which Iwasgoing to. “I know, it’s a rivetingcareer choice, but I actually love it.” He scratches his nose with the back of his thumb, looking sideways across the room. “I’m an only child,” he adds. “My father lives in France, so I don’t see him all that often. But he’s, rather pathetically, my best friend. My mother passed away when I was young.” He laughs dryly, as if maybe he’s unsure of whether he’s oversharing.
“Uh… I worked as a barista through university, and it made me agonisingly pretentious about coffee. When I was a teenager, I read a book about healthy brain habits, and now I do a sudoku puzzle every day because I’m paranoid about my brain rotting. My favourite animals are dogs, but I’ve never had one as a pet. Um, my favourite colour is purple?” he asks, as if he’s unsure of where to stop.
“That was great, thank you,” I say.
“Yeah? I pass?”
“Yes, very informative. Though I do have some follow-up questions.”
“Don’t you have to tell me about yourself first?” Bo asks, raising one brow.
“Oh, right, okay,” I say, reaching for the cup that I placed on the table in front of us.
Bo waits for me to speak, his eyes intently focused as he leans farther against the back of the couch.
“I’m twenty-eight.” I take a sip of my drink. “I work at a café, so I’malsoa bit of a coffee snob. I work as a lifeguard seasonally, which I love. I’d spend my whole life outdoors if I could. My mother used to affectionately refer to me as her pet squirrel because of thatandbecause I tend to hoard things. Currently, that’s plants. My mom lives in Florida now with a string of boyfriends who are nice enough… I try to visit her once a year, but we aren’t exactly close. I never met my dad. And…” I try to think of one last thing. “Oh,myfavourite colour is green.”
“Well, it’s good to meet you, Fred.”
“Please don’t call me that,” I say forcibly, half joking.
“What? Why not?” He looks comically offended.
“It’s not a particularly sexyname,” I say. “Winnifred is bad enough, butFred? I sound like the creepy uncle you don’t invite to Thanksgiving.”
“Agree to disagree.”
“Imagine crying out ‘Fred’in the bedroom.” His smirk grows, and I glare at him, deciding to make my point clear. “Oh, Fred.” I moan. “Yes, Fred!” I cry, probably a bit too loudly, in fake passion. “It’s awful.” A few of the other party guests, confused and perhaps the tiniest bit offended, turn toward us. I salute them before they go back to their own conversations, my eyes held on Bo.
It’s horribly cliché, but his smile is beaming—far brighter than the sun. I feel myself bloom with it, as if it’s my own personal version of photosynthesis.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” I ask, feeling suddenly shy.
“You’re funny,” he says matter-of-factly, his expression remaining.
Huh.
I do my best to look around the room, pretending the other guests and their costumes are suddenly much more interesting to me. I’m hyperaware that I’m blushing at the compliment and wishing, desperately, that I could stop.
When I do finally look back, Bo’s attention is focused on the back of the tufted couch. With his hand around the top of my seat, the tip of his thumb traces one of the fabric buttons in a small, circular motion over and over.
I shouldn’t be affected by it, and I’ll deny it if ever confronted, but there’s something inherently sexual about the motion. I watch, feeling far too enraptured, as he circles the button tenderly. My throat tenses as my lips part, imagining his thumb workingmeover in a similar way. It’s been monthssince a date went well enough that I allowed a man to touch me like that—not that it was all that great when he did. Still, judging by the rattling of stuttered breaths in my chest, I think I’d let Bo give it a try.
“So,” Bo says, dragging my gaze from the button toward his face, “you’re not here with anyone…”
“Is that a question?” I ask, regaining my voice with a noticeable rasp.
He rolls his eyes. I likethat too.
“I suppose,” he elongates the word, “the question is: why?”
“Oh, so we’ve gotten to thewhat are your faults?part of the evening?” I ask.
“I was thinking more along the lines ofhow is someone like you single?butsure,” he says.
