“Hey,” I say, placing my hand over his heart. I feel it beating through the layers of his shirt and jacket. “The future’s so wide open. Who knows what it holds?”
He takes my face in his hands. His palms are hot against my windblown cheeks, his gaze hard as steel. “Jilly, you make life feel okay, even when it mostly sucks—you always have. It pisses me off that I’ve wasted time I could’ve spent with you, so God, don’t make me worry that the future’s not a sure thing. If you’re not serious, tell me now, before I get in any deeper.”
If his body language is any indication—tense and expectant, jaw tight, shoulders rigid—he’s in pretty deep already. And I’m on emotional overload. I have to swallow before I can say, “I’m serious.” A gust of wind carries my promise away. “I’m serious, Max,” I repeat. “I’m as serious as you are.”
I don’t miss his exhale of relief as he dips his head so we’re eye to eye. “Good.”
He gives me a sweet smile, then kisses me, a kiss too intimate for the very public observation deck of the Space Needle—not that I’m complaining.
When we’re sufficiently frozen, we ride back down the elevator and climb into the truck. With the heater on high, Max drives south, adjacent to Elliott Bay, and parks across the street from the waterfront. He takes my hand and we jog toward the water, where the air is crisp and briny. He stops in front of Pier 59. I read the sign above the weathered powder-blue building.
“Seattle Aquarium?”
“I thought it’d be fun.”
He’s freaking adorable, all flushed cheeks and hopeful smiles. I tug him through the entrance.
We spend the rest of the afternoon wandering the aquarium like little kids. We marvel at the giant Puget Sound octopus, peer at tiny sea horses and transparent jellyfish, watch playful otters splashing around, and point out puffins torpedoing through their pools. I laugh when Max stands next to a huge wooden cutout of a shark to measure his six feet, two inches, then squirm when he makes me poke at sea stars and anemones in the hands-on tide pools. We walk through the gift shop, where he buys Oliver a rubber version of the creepy octopus we saw, and I pick out a stuffed sea horse for Ally.
After, we sit on a bench in front of a huge wall of aquarium water contained behind glass so thick it distorts what’s beyond: salmon, eels, and oddly, a scuba diver.
“Hungry?” I ask Max.
“Starving. What’re we doing for dinner?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know.”
“Pizza?” he guesses, taking my hand and pulling me from the bench.
“You think my favorite restaurant in all of Seattle serves pizza?”
“Mexican?”
“Nope.”
“Thai?”
“Max,” I say, flashing the flirty I’m-so-innocent smile I learned from him. “You’ll see when we get there.”
He swats my butt. “Then let’s move. I’m withering away.”
We hoof it up the hill toward Pike Place Market. Darkness has fallen and it’s bitter cold. He offers me his jacket; I feel a little silly accepting it, like a distressed damsel, but it’s toasty and smells delightfully of him. I don’t slip it off my shoulders until we’ve climbed a steep set of stairs that takes us to the entrance of a little restaurant. Its door is the color of sunlight.
“The Yellow Door?” Max says, reading the plaque.
“My dad and I used to come here all the time. It’s the best—you’ll see.”
We’re slightly underdressed, but the hostess is gracious, the restaurant cozy and familiar. Candles flicker and the aroma of smoky meat and bright citrus makes my mouth water. We’re shown to a secluded table overlooking the darkened bay. Wineglasses sit in front of our places, along with a line of sparkling silverware. I skim the menu’sChef’s Specialsinsert:Seared Artisan Sonoma Foie GrasandEscargotsàla Bordelaise.
Under the table, Max nudges my ankle with his foot. When I look up, he winks. “Bunco was good to me, so I’ve got the check. Get whatever you want.”
We decide on the tasting menu—that’s what my dad and I used to share—and end up oohing and aahing our way through each course: sweet cream of carrot soup,foie gras, pan-seared salmon, and melt-in-your-mouth beef tenderloin with fingerling potatoes. Dessert, a velvety chocolate mousse, is delectable. By the time we’ve finished, I feel like I’ll need a crane to lift me from my upholstered seat.
“You were right,” Max says, looking over the bill. “That was really freaking good.”
“I knew you’d like it. Also, will you please let me split that with you?”
He eyes me, offended. “I told you I’ve got it.”
