"Exactly," I say. He actually gets it in a way that none of my friends or previous dates ever have. "It's like... I know the work is boring, but at least I know what I'm doing. The numbers make sense. They follow rules. It's the one part of my life that I can actually control."
"Yes," he says, and there is something raw in his voice now, something that sounds like relief. "Yes, exactly that."
We talk about spreadsheets. We talk about the specific, petty frustrations of dealing with people who do not understand conditional formatting. He tells me about a client who insisted on using Comic Sans in a financial report, and I tell him about the time I had to physically restrain myself from correcting a colleague's pivot table in a meeting. We compare notes on Excel shortcuts. He uses VLOOKUP. I prefer INDEX-MATCH. We have a spirited debate about the merits of each that lasts approximately ten minutes and ends with both of us laughing, and I realise that I have not thought about my phone or the time or my escape plan in over half an hour.
The server comes by to check on us, and Narod orders an appetizer without consulting me first, but he does it in such a way that makes it clear he is ordering for the table and notmaking assumptions about what I want, and when the truffle fries arrive he pushes the plate carefully toward the center and waits for me to take one first.
"I was not sure if you had any dietary restrictions," he says. "I should have asked. I apologise."
"You're fine. I will eat literally anything that involves cheese and carbohydrates."
"That is a sound nutritional philosophy."
I take a fry. It is possibly the best thing I have tasted all week, and I make a small, involuntary noise of appreciation that I immediately regret because Narod's eyes go very wide and very dark, as his hand tightens just slightly around his glass.
"Good?" he asks, and his voice has dropped again, and I feel something low and warm curl in my stomach that I am absolutely not prepared to deal with.
"Very good," I say, and I take another one because I need to do something with my hands.
We eat. We talk. He tells me about his apartment, which he describes as "small but efficiently organized," and I tell him about my roommate who is perpetually trying to get me to be more spontaneous and less rigidly scheduled. He asks me what I do for fun, and I admit that my hobbies are mostly "reading financial thrillers" and "organising my closet by colour and season," and he does not laugh or look at me like I am boring, he just nods and says that he also organises his closet by colour and season, and that he has a separate section for work sweater vests and casual sweater vests.
"How many sweater vests do you own?" I ask.
"Seventeen."
"That's... that's a lot of sweater vests."
"They are practical and they help me feel more professionally presentable, and the repetition reduces the cognitive load of deciding what to wear in the morning."
I am smiling so hard my face hurts. "You are possibly the most endearing person I have ever met."
He goes very still. His eyes are locked on mine, and I can see the faint flush creeping up his neck, and I realise that I have said that out loud, that I have used the word "endearing" in reference to a six-foot-nine Orc who is currently blushing into his cosmopolitan.
"I..." He stops. Starts again. "That is not a word that is typically used to describe me."
"Then people are idiots."
His breath catches. I hear it, the small, sharp inhale as his shoulders drop just slightly, like something he has been holding tense for a very long time has finally let go.
"Thank you," he says, and his voice is so quiet I almost miss it.
I reach across the table. I do not overthink it, I just do it, and I rest my hand on top of his where it sits next to his glass. His skin is warm. His hand dwarfs mine entirely. He does not pull away.
"You're welcome," I say.
We sit like that for a moment, and I am acutely aware of every point of contact, with his hand under mine, the way his thumb shifts just slightly like he is testing whether I am going to let go. I do not let go.
And then I hear the voice.
"Livia? Oh my god, Livia, is that you?"
Every muscle in my body locks up.
I know that voice. I know the specific, grating inflection of false enthusiasm, the way it curls around my name like he still has any right to say it. I turn my head slowly, and there he is, sauntering toward our table with the kind of confidence that only comes from never having experienced a single consequence in his entire life.
Chad.
My nightmare ex-boyfriend. The man who spent six months of my life making me feel small and boring and insufficiently interesting, who cheated on me with a yoga instructor named Amber and then had the audacity to tell me it was because I "didn't prioritize spontaneity."
