She blinks. “That’s easy.”
“Start easy,” I say. “We’ll work our way up.”
She thinks for a second, then smiles softly. “Green. Like spring. Like the trees in Chicago right before summer when they’re bright and fresh and alive.”
I file the answer away like it’s vital intelligence. “Green,” I repeat. “Figures.”
“Figures?” she echoes, suspicious.
“Matches your eyes.”
She looks away too quickly, pretending to adjust the menu again. “Your turn. Favorite color?”
“Black.”
“That’s not a color.”
“It is when you’re me.”
She laughs—short and genuine. The sound rattles me in a way I don’t admit.
Her cheeks are still pink when she says, “Okay. Next one… favorite food?”
“Steak. Medium rare.”
She groans. “Predictable.”
I smirk. “Yours?”
“French fries,” she says immediately. “With way too much salt.”
I chuckle. “Of course.”
We volley back and forth for a while—favorite movie, favorite drink, first concert. She gets dramatic telling me about sneaking into a show with her sister. I admit to hating musicals and she gasps like I just committed a crime.
It’s easy. Too easy.
And I’m letting my guard down.
So I shift gears.
“Who was that man tonight?”
The air changes instantly.
Her smile fades, her whole body stiffening like a string pulled too tight.
“Elliott,” she says finally, the name clipped, bitter.
Her voice alone tells me she hates saying it.
I lean forward, forearms braced on my knees. “Who is he to you?”
She hesitates. Long enough to make my pulse tick faster.
Her fingers twist together in her lap. She won’t look at me. “Someone I used to know.”
“That’s not an answer.”
