Beneath the table, his dark skinny jeans-clad knee brushes against mine. The touch is brief, only a split second before it’s over, but it sets my blood pounding and makes the warmth still creeping beneath my skin flare brighter and hotter than ever.
“But I wanted to know about you,” he snaps my attention back up to his face from where it had suddenly fixated, on the millimeter of space now hovering between our legs. “Tell me something.”
For some inexplicable reason, the first thing that bubbles up in me, threatening to burst out in a ruinously awkward and mood killing announcement, is Stephen—his loss and the healed yet ever-present heartache it left behind. Thank god I catch myself in the nick of time, choking down that too-heavy story.
It's not that Stephen, or what happened, is a secret. If, by some miraculous gift of luck, this evening isn’t the only one I spend with Tristan, I’ll tell him about both. It’s just that that piece of me is one I hold close, not something I let out unless there’s a reason.
Besides, and maybe even more than anything else, I can’t stand for Tristan to look at me with that inevitable pity, or, worse still, to trade in his teasing and flirting for tiptoeing. And so instead, in a blessedly normal sounding voice, I tell him that I’m a PhD student, working toward a degree in medieval European studies.
“Usually I work as a TA for undergrad classes too, leading study groups and grading papers for the professors. I decided to take this quarter off though, to really focus on my research.”
What I don’t tell him is that it’s because I’m chronicallybehind on my ever-extending timelines and thought the break from other responsibilities would help. Spoiler: it hasn’t.
Nor do I tell him that the reason I’m able to take this quarter off is that the insurance settlement I got after the accident is more than enough to cover my living expenses for the foreseeable future, even if I never do actually get my shit together and graduate.
“I’ve just got my dissertation left,” I continue, glad he seems content not to ask why I’m not currently working.
“What’s it about?” Tristan leans in again to prop his chin on one fist, elbow rested on the table, his eyes trained on my face, their expression soft and curious.
Damn, the sincerity of his attention is irresistible.
“I’d started out focusing on tracking the correlation between outbreaks of the plague and rises in religious fanaticism. Somewhere along the way, the tension between the old pre-Christian beliefs and religious reformation caught my attention, and from there, I ended up falling down the rabbit hole of witch hysteria events.”
“Like Salem?”
“Exactly, except I’m focusing just on western Europe.” There’s no stopping the smile from spreading across my face as I take in the genuine interest in Tristan’s watchful eyes. As I’d started on my explanation, the words had felt pedantic, like I needed to cut them short and change the subject, but not now.
No matter how burned-out I’ve been feeling lately, there’s a reason I chose my obscure, niche area of study. Now, sitting across the table from someone who’s listening the way Tristan is, like the esoteric world I’ve devoted myself to is not only worth hearing about but fascinating, is undeniably thrilling.
“The claim I’m trying to support is that the more isolatedan area was; geographically, socially, in terms of resources, the more intense bouts of witch hunting panic were, and that the worst of them came after the barriers that created that isolation had started to break down. Like a backlash effect to the prolonged preservation of the old ways.”
Tristan’s genuinely curious questions keep me talking until our food arrives, despite the fact that I’ve tried to give him outs to end the conversation for fear that I’m monopolizing it.
“The conception of witch burnings is a bit of a stereotype really,” I say, distractedly plucking a cube of tofu from my curry. “A large portion were hanged and then only burned afterword. And that’s if they lived to be executed. In some regions, fatalities due to interrogation techniques, which were really just a justification for torture, were higher than the number of actually condemned witches.
“Garroting before burning was also popular. That’s where the executioner took a sharp rod and rammed it through—”
The realization ofwhereI am—a restaurant, not a classroom—andwhoI’m talking to—my unbelievably gorgeous dinner date, not a study group of undergrads—slams into me with such force that I’m surprised it doesn’t bowl me right out of my chair.What the hell was I thinking saying shit like that?
I look up, chopsticks in hand, face suddenly frozen in mortified horror, to find Tristan staring at me from across the tiny table, looking like he’s trying to force himself to stay silent, pressing his lips together. If it wasn’t for the upward twitch at the corners, I’d be afraid I’d actually made him sick.
“—Through?” he prompts when several unacceptably long seconds tick by in silence. There’s a wobble to his voice, but thank god, it distinctly sounds like he’s trying not to laugh. Maybe that doesn’t mean he doesn’t think I’m not a fuckingpsycho, but the amused glint in his eyes is slightly reassuring.
“Maybe this isn’t the best dinnertime topic,” I mumble, dropping my eyes, and my still full chopsticks, back to my plate.
Tristan lets out a laugh. Not a derisive, offended laugh like it probably should be, but a warm, entertained laugh. “Maybe not.”
Somehow, even with my eyes still glued to my now decidedly less appealing food, I can feel the brightness of his smile.
“Don’t worry, sunshine,” he grins at me as I force myself to glance up at him. “It was interesting. I like that you’re so into your research. You know so much, and I can tell you really care—not just about the information, but about the people who died ‘cause of the craziness of all of it. Yeah, I can tell a lot of it’s dark as fuck, but you aren’t.
“Shit, Jesse,” he goes on, “I wish I had something I knew so much about. Like, something I wanted to learn all about and tell everyone, even if they might think I was a weirdo for listing all the gory details on a dinner date.” The eyebrow with the ring in it lifts as his grin widens, pressing his dimple deeper into his cheek.
“That really was weird, wasn’t it?” I groan, fighting the urge to drop my head down into my hands and hide, even though the warmth of his smile and the sincerity in his voice have melted some of my mortification. At least I’m not afraid he’s about to scramble up from the table and evacuate the restaurant anymore.
Tristan shrugs, tilting his head as he obviously fights down another laugh. “Yeah, probably. I’m serious though. It’s cool you’re so into what you do that talking about it makes youforget not to say stuff like that when you shouldn’t, you know? And besides, I like hearing about what you’re interested in.”
“Even if it’s dark as fuck?”
