He sighs deeply. But before he can say anything, a waiter with a crooked nose and a shock of black hair shows us to our table next to the large window front. The ledge under the window holds a set of stained wine crates, planted with an assortment of herbs, and their scent mingles with the heavenly smell of melted cheese wafting in from the kitchen. This really would be the perfect place for a real date—not that I’ve had one of those in a while. But tonight, Lewis and I are only here to hold hands and get lost in each other’s eyes and be conveniently visible when Brady passes by on her evening walk.
After the waiter has served us sparkling water, an oval platter of bread, and a dish of herb-seasoned oil, I scan the menu for vegetarian and, preferably, warm options that can combat the actual and proverbial freezing temperatures in here.
“You know,” Lewis starts, “regardless of all those arguments, the current research points to waning and waxing activity related to working memory, and not persistent firing.”
I lower my menu so he can fully appreciate my eyeroll. He finally shuts up as the waiter takes our order—ragú, no cheese for him, gnocchi drenched in gorgonzola for me, and half a carafe of red to share.
“You’re cold,” Lewis observes, nodding at my posture: arms folded in front of my chest, shoulders hunched.
I tighten my arms around me. “I’m okay.”
But he clearly doesn’t believe me because he leans forward to ghost his fingertips over my collarbone. I shift in my chair, hyper aware of his caress and the shivers that trail it, the unexpected twist deep in my belly.
“Do you want to leave?” he asks.
“Not when operation Brady is still ongoing. And don’t think we’re done with this conversation.”
A smile crosses his lips. “Fine. But take my jacket.”
Before I can protest, he’s up and shrugs out of his suit jacket, which he then drapes over my shoulders. The fabric is silky, still warm from his body, and the feel of it on my skin is strangely intimate. It smells good, too. Comforting. Like smoky pines and a quiet stay in a log cabin. Lewis’s knuckles brush the nape of my neck as he scoops up my hair from where it got trapped under the collar, sending heat zinging through my body that has nothing to do with the warmth of his jacket.
“Better?”
“Yeah,” I breathe out. Glad my back is still toward him, I chug my water to wash down the unexpected surge of sensations. “So. If we’re saying you’re right, which, to be clear, we aren’t. But if you were. How’s working memory different from long-term memory then?”
Back in his chair, Lewis stares at the candle on our table, the flickering light reflected in his widened pupils. Without his jacket, the outlines of his arms and chest are sharply visible. He folds up the sleeves of his shirt, calmly, like he’s getting ready for battle, and I follow the movement, mesmerized by the dance of his tendons and the gold dust of hair on his forearms. Then he wets his lips, looks me in the eye, and launches another attack.
Our food is served, we dine, and the argument keeps rolling. There’s something oddly familiar about this situation and the cogs in my head whir as they grasp for counterarguments and hypothetical questions I can toss back at him. I sip on my wine, and that’s when it hits me. We’ve done something like this before. Four years ago, when he took my arguments as his own.
I won’t fall for this again.
“Hey!” I hold up my index finger. “I thought no espionage about each other’s projects.”
His eyebrows shoot up.
“Wasn’t that one of your terms? About our arrangement?”
“Yes. What about it?”
“Are you, coincidentally, writing a review and need some help?” I hiss, stabbing the last of my gnocchi with my fork. “Should I pick my words more carefully so that they’ll sound nice in your next paper?”
He sets down his cutlery. “Do you mean—”
“Don’t be smart, Theodore,” I bite out. “You know exactly what I’m talking about.”
“Don’t call me that!”
I lean forward. “You’ve done this before. Remember? Four years ago?”
“I know,” he mutters quietly, but I’m too far into my rant to care.
“The opinion paper withyourname on it? The one that should have had mine on it, too, if you’d had the decency to credit me for my work? But instead you used my thoughts, my intellectual property, for your own good just like he—”
“I know,” Lewis says, and then again, “I know.” And this time it shuts me up, because:
“You know?”
I would’ve expected anything else: for him to fight back, orto rationalize himself out of it in some way that makes me feel like I’m overreacting. Or even for him to outright deny it. But not to accept my accusation, the corners of his mouth turned down in a perfect expression of regret.
