“I wonder why the coconut bra is a thing,” I muse.
He groans. “Are you thinking about Daveed Diggs again? Whyishe always wearing a coconut bra in your head?”
“No, I don’t mean why it’s a thing forme.”Though that’s probably a good question in and of itself. “I mean, like, in general. It would be super scratchy. And I can’t imagine it provides much in the way of support.”
“Hmm. Probably not.” He reflects on this. “Maybe it’s the equivalent of a boob job. Makes them seem bigger? And . . . roughly textured?”
I laugh. “Sexy, right? Who doesn’t want to feel those up?” I look down at my own chest, which isn’t exactly the Kansas plains but definitely not the Rockies, either.Though this dress does cling to them nicely, and the keyhole neckline actually manages to show them off, such as they are. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t hope Brendan would notice. “Bigger, though . . . I could usethat.”
His gaze drops to my chest, then quickly away. “Come on. Your coconuts are great the way they are.” He gives me a side-eye smile, and a flush of heat goes through me.
Is this still just our normal flirting? My heart is racing, and as badly as this conversation could turn out, I have to know if I have any chance, or if I should be burying these feelings along with my angst about my absentee mom and the memory of the love poem I wrote in high school and immediately sent to Chris Pine (who would also look good in a coconut bra).
There’s only one way to find out. I steel myself, something that’s somehow easier with his arm around me and the weight of his hand in mind. “So, I probably shouldn’t be asking this so soon after talking about my boobs . . .”
Seriously, Su-Lin? Is that the way to start this conversation?
Now both his eyebrows are raised.
Too late now. Full speed ahead.
“But, um,” I continue, “just in the interest of checking in on things . . .”
“If there’s something you want to ask me, you can just say it,” he says, though he knows full well my need to preface potentially uncomfortable questions in super awkward ways.
“Right. Okay.” I let out a breath. “I just wondered if you’re feeling like you might be ready to date. In general, I mean.”
He blinks a little rapidly and his shoulder tenses up, and I’m pretty sure I’m about to get rejected again, like that first time we went to lunch to talk about the business. I called it a date, and he had to break it to me that he never ever dates and maybe never will.
But then he lets out his own breath and smiles hesitantly.
“Yeah,” he says, so softly I have to strain to hear it. “Yeah, I’m definitely getting there.”
I chew on the inside of my cheek, trying to keep from breaking out into a full-on victory cheer. After all, him feeling like he might be able to date doesn’tnecessarilyhelp me.
“Are you thinking about asking out anyone in particular?” I ask cautiously.
“Well, there is this one really awesome girl,” he says, and the flirtatious spark in his eyes makes my heart flutter. “She’s beautiful and funny and crazy, and I know she was into me when we first met. I was thinking about seeing if that’s still a possibility.”
I feel like I’m floating, higher and higher with every word. He does like me as more than a friend. He does want to date me.
“She sounds pretty great.” I’m trying to keep my tone all coy and nonchalant, but I’m excitedly bouncing on the balls of my feet again, which isn’t great for nonchalant or dancing.
“Yeah.”The look he gives me is both soft and full of heat. “She is.”
My breath catches, and for a horrible second, I’m sure this is too good to be true. “It’s me, right? Is it me?”
Brendan laughs and pulls me closer, guiding me in circles. “Yes, it’s you. You’re the only one who could make me want to date again. But . . .”
But? My floating pauses, my stomach lurching a bit.
There’s some sadness in his smile. “Wanting to and being able to jump into something without my chest feeling like an alien is about to burst out of it are two very different things.”
I rest my head on his shoulder. I still feel like bouncing just knowing hewantsto be with me.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “The idea of a—arelationship,it’s . . .” I look back up at him, and he seems paler at even having said that word. “I can’t leap into anything serious like that, I just . . .”
I can see that he’s frustrated—with himself, with his panic disorder. Hopefully also with his horrible ex-wife who must still have some hold on him despite cheating on him for years and generally being awful to him.
