And another, a rather dominant one, yearned for the danger he was promising. The sane thought would’ve been to schedule an appointment with a psychotherapist.
I didn’t know if St. Francisville had one.
I considered asking him.
Then I looked at his cleanly shaved jaw, the dark hair, the light eyes, and decided to cut my food instead.
The morning light came through the tall windows and caught the silver in the room and made everything look like something it wasn't, and I thought:this is the thing that's going to ruin me. Not the darkness of him. The moments where he acts like a person.
“Okay,” I said.
We talked about the grant cycle.
I really should’ve asked about that psychotherapist.
Halfway through coffee, his hand moved under the table.
Leisurely. At first his fingers found my knee and stayed there, which was worse than anything with intent would have been. Just his palm against my kneecap, warm through the fabric. Casual. Like it had been there before and expected to be there again.
I kept talking. Something about the volunteer schedule. I don't remember what.
His thumb moved. A slow arc across the inside of my knee. I now saw why he had sat down beside me and not across from me.
Mrs. Tureaud glanced over from her table. She saw Judah's shoulder, my face, the stillness I was working very hardto maintain, and she smiled into her coffee like she'd won something.
“You're doing this on purpose,” I said again, quieter this time.
“You keep saying that.”
“Because you keep doing it.”
“Mercy.” His thumb traced another arc. I felt it all the way up. “I am sitting at a table having coffee. My hand is under a tablecloth. Nobody can see anything.”
“I can tell.”
“Can you.” Not a question. The pressure of his fingers increased, just slightly. “You look perfectly composed.”
“I am perfectly composed.”
“You are,” he agreed. His hand moved higher, the fabric of my dress shifting with it. “You're very good at that.”
I picked up my coffee cup with both hands because I needed something to hold onto.
My legs parted on their own accord — traitors!
Under the table, his fingers reached the hem of my dress and stopped. Not pushing further. My pulse was in my throat. Mrs. Tureaud was still in my peripheral vision and I was having a full conversation with my face about staying neutral.
“What do you want?” I asked.
Low. Just for him.
His eyes came up and met mine. The look in them was the look from last night, from every moment where I'd understood that whatever was between us was not safe or simple or anything I had the vocabulary for.
“Everything,” he said. Same low register. “I want everything, Mercy.”
The coffee cup was warm in my hands. The room was full of people. His hand was at my thigh and not moving and the calm torture of that was worse than anything else he'd done.
“We're in public,” I reminded him. Maybe he’d forgotten.
