Silence wraps us in a bubble as the nickname I used to call her slips out. Her fingers haven’t twitched within my grip. Instead, she surprises me when she asks, “If you could ask me one thing, what would it be?”
“I’d ask you to dinner,” I blurt out.
She slips her hand from mine and I immediately feel the loss. She folds her fingers together and rests her chin on her raised fist. “Why?”
I wait a beat. “Because dinner isn’t an apology. It’s an opportunity, but it’s not a promise.”
She watches me, unreadable.
“It’s a chance for some real conversations?—”
“You mean we’re not having that right now?”
“We are. It’s just, I don’t ever want you to feel like you owe me a yes. I want you to have a choice,” I conclude my words on a whisper.
“Is there a specific outcome you expect from this dinner?” she asks.
“No,” I reply immediately. Then I amend it, because honesty matters. “Nothing from you. Something from myself.”
She quirks a brow.
“I want to show you I’m not the same person who let you down.”
“What does that entail?”
Still encouraged she hasn’t shot me down, I offer, “I could make dinner and show you?”
“Or get take out so you don’t poison your guest?” She eyeballs me. “I assume you haven’t quite mastered cooking?”
I grin, unrepentant. “Very true. Probably a safer idea.”
“Sounds…intimate.”
“I want us to be in a quiet space to discuss the hard things.”
She waves her hand back and forth “We’ve laid out the worst of it, Brennan.”
While I’m grateful for her response, I reassure her, “I want to answer any of your questions from then, from now. I want to listen to you and learn about the woman you are without an audience.”
“And if halfway through I decide I’m done?” she questions.
“Then I’d thank you for coming and I’d walk you to your car.”
Her shoulders ease—just a fraction. “Dinner,” she repeats, testing the word.
“A meal. No expectations. No rewriting history.”
She studies me a moment longer, then exhales. “I’ll call you when I’m ready. We’ll figure out a good time.”
“You let me know when you can make it and I’ll be waiting,” I vow. I want to do a fist pump at the table. Hope is exploding in my chest. I tap her binders, “In the meanwhile, tell me more about these special projects you’re working on?”
Amy tells me about the three different fundraisers she’s coordinating. I listen intently before asking, “How can I help?”
Her lips part. “I would never exploit you like that, Brennan.”
“I’ve learned something from all of the people willing to talk about you.”
“What’s that?”
