CALLIE:Not that I know of.
I’m about to type:They just left together, when a new bubble materializes.
CALLIE:I see you’re hitting it off with Cillian.
Eyeroll. Just because I’m making polite conversation does not—at all—mean I’m hitting it off.
CALLIE:He’s a nice guy. You should give him a shot.
CALLIE:Also, I made a bet, which I lost, and now we have a dance lesson with him at the shop tomorrow at noon.
ME:By we, I hope you mean Tarian and yourself.
CALLIE:Tarian. Dance.????????????
Callie is grinning now. It’s contagious, because, even though my heart feels like trodden shit, the corners of my mouth perk up.
As a waiter arrives with my fresh drink, I hit send on one last message.
ME:Hard pass on the dancing.
And then I place my cell phone face-side down beside my plate and grip my glass just as Cillian asks, “So, what’s your life story?”
I contemplate what parts to tell him. “I was born in the US, but grew up in Atlantis.” I tongue some salt off the rim of my glass, not missing how Cillian’s eyes lock on my mouth. “My parents are amazing.” When he looks around, I add, “But unfortunately not here tonight. My brother Dorian can be a pain in the ass, but he’s also amazing. His husband is the best.” I blow Diego a kiss that makes one of his eyebrows hitch high and murmur something into Dorian’s ear that makes the latter turn my way.
His green-gray eyes taper almost menacingly on my neighbor. It’s cute, albeit unnecessary, considering there’s zero chance anything will happen between Cillian and me. Well, anyrealthing.
Probably no fake one either.
If there was, though, I have no doubt my brother would cross-examine him with the fervor of a homicide detective.
“It’s funny that your people named your island Atlantis.” Cillian’s voice cuts across my hodgepodge of musings.
“What’s funny about it?”
He shrugs. “That they’d borrow the name of a legendary island, instead of coming up with one of their own.”
“What makes you think it isn’t the original isle?”
“Is it?”
“Who knows?” I shrug.
Cillian pushes back his chair and hooks his foot over his knee, giving me an unobstructed view of his high-tops. “Did you enjoy living there?”
“Not particularly. I prefer places that take longer than two hours to explore from end to end.” I squint at the doodles.
One shoe features a four-leaf clover, the wordCash, and the phrase “Happiness is a choice.” The other is decorated with a bleeding heart bracketed by the initialsQ.H.andR.R.
“Interesting footwear. Did you have them customized?”
“Found them in a thrift shop. I’m guessing Q.H or R.R. got their hearts broken—thus the discarded shoes.”
“Doesn’t it bother you to wear something so personal?”
He shrugs. “Shoes are shoes.”
“Have you tried to scrub them?”
