I think about Darius, about our first team sleepover, about how the only thing I wanted in bed was to be held long enough to believe it was possible. I swallow.
“Yeah,” I say. “Started early. Couldn’t quit.”
Vincent steeples his fingers, still watching. “What about after the shooting?” He says it softly, almost like he’s sorry. “You ever think about walking away?”
That one lands harder than I expect. I feel my jaw twitch, just for a second, then I clamp down. “All the time,” I say. “But what would I do? Open a vape shop?”
He grins, pleased at the comeback, and the conversation shifts.
He tells a story about the worst team in the Ivy League, how they used to haze the freshmen by making them eat a whole wheel of brie before practice, and I laugh at the right part, but I’m not there. Not really.
My hand is under the table, clutching my phone, thumb flicking the screen on and off, hoping to see a name that’s not coming.
Vincent watches me do it, and his smile changes, goes a little sharper, a little more hungry. “You waiting on someone?” he says.
I put the phone away. “No. Just… habit.”
He reaches over, covers my hand with his.
His skin is warm, dry, and it should be comforting but all I feel is the microtexture of his palm and the way the tips of his fingers seem to press down a little harder than they need to.
I leave my hand there, not because I want to, but because it’s easier than pulling away and making a scene.
The food comes.
It’s six tiny plates, none of them recognizable, everything covered in microgreens and little smears of sauce. Vincent eatswith focus, cutting each bite to exact size, never letting a single drop hit his lips.
I pick at mine, chewing slow, tasting nothing. I could be eating raw insulation for all I notice.
He talks about journalism, about deadlines, about how the only thing worse than being a benchwarmer is being a “content farm slave.” He drops names I don’t recognize and laughs when I don’t catch the references.
He asks about my family, about Tacoma, about the bakery, and I answer in sentences as short as possible, because the only thing I have left is the ability to avoid.
When the check comes, he snatches it before I can blink. “Let me,” he says, and I nod, grateful. The place is still roaring, but it feels like a fish tank and I’m out of air.
Outside, the night is colder than I expected.
Vincent pulls his jacket tighter, then steps into my space, close enough that I can see the shine on his teeth.
He glances around, sees that the sidewalk is empty, then pushes me back against the fender of a parked Subaru.
His hand goes to the back of my neck, fingers splayed, gentle but in control. He kisses me, hard, the kind of kiss you do for the cameras even if there are no cameras.
His mouth is cold from the wine, but his breath is hot, and he doesn’t hesitate, not for a second.
I kiss him back, but it’s all technique and no feeling. Like shaking hands at a funeral. My lips move, my tongue flicks, but my head is miles away, running every possible scenario where Darius sees us and doesn’t care.
Vincent pulls back, not breaking eye contact. He breathes out, and the smell of cologne and whiskey and aftershave is so strong it makes me want to sneeze.
“Want to come over?” he says.
The right answer is “no.” The right answer is “I’m not ready,” or “I have practice in the morning,” or “my body is currently occupied by the ghost of someone else.” But I say “sure,” because that’s what you do when you want to forget.
He grins, the kind of smile that means he already won, and leads me to his car, his hand never leaving my neck.
Inside, it’s warm. He puts a playlist on, something with thumping bass and vocals so soft they’re just a suggestion.
His hand drops to my thigh, squeezes, and I feel my heart rate spike, but it’s not excitement, it’s survival mode.
