“You didn’t sit next to me.”
“I’m pacing myself.”
“That’s suspicious,” I smile.
“I’m strategic.”
“They have so many options here,” I say as I look at the menu. There are at least forty cocktails on here, and I don’t know where to start.
“Can I order one for you?” Blake asks, and without even realizing, I immediately agree.
The bartender brings our drinks only a few minutes later. Mine is citrus and sparkling and stronger than it tastes. Blake watches me take the first sip.
“Well?”
“It’s good. You picked well.”
“I pay attention.”
There it is again. That sentence.
“You’re different tonight,” he says softly.
“How?”
“Less ready to run.”
“I didn’t run before.”
“You did.”
“That was strategic retreat.”
“That was panic.”
I laugh.
“Maybe.”
“I like this version better.”
“This version?”
“The one that stays.”
Something warm spreads through my chest.
“That sounds like pressure,” I say softly.
“It’s not.”
“It sounds like it.”
“It’s appreciation.”
That’s worse because appreciation is harder to argue with.
We leave the bar about an hour later, and in that time, I have learned that Blake is a total chemistry nerd. He has also told me he loves ancient Egypt and is a big fan of tacos. Outside, the air is cool and quiet. Chicago at night always feels softer somehow.
