Page 53 of Head Under Water

He’s not wearing cologne. The scent that hits my nose is only soap. Something fresh and clean.

“You look great too,” I say, realizing I should be saying something. And it’s not a lie. Banks always looks great. Tonight, he’s wearing a black sweater and jeans. His clothes are fitted, not sloppy. Perfectly nice.

“Have fun, you two,” Jess teases in a sing-song voice. She shuts the door behind me as I step into the hall.

Banks holds out his hand, and I slip mine into it with ease. The spark is there, an ember from a fire rather than a Fourth of July sparkler, but it’s warm. Nice.

I don’t need sparks. I just need someone kind.

“I, uh, thought we could walk, if you’re up for it?”

“Where are we going?” I prompt.

He gives a nervous chuckle, scratching the back of his neck. “Oh, yeah. I guess I never told you, did I? Sorry. There’s this place I love near campus. Frank’s. It’s bar food, mostly. Burgers, hot dogs, pizza, that sort of thing.” His eyes scan my face. “You’re disappointed. Not a fan?”

But it’s not disappointment spreading in my chest, it’s sadness. Thinking of her, even in passing, always makes me miss home. Miss her. “No, not disappointed at all. I’ve been a few times. It’s one of my mom’s favorite places.”

“Sounds like she has good taste,” he says, steering us to the right once we’re outside the building. “Do you have a favorite place? I should’ve asked.”

My mind immediately goes to the pizza place where Jess and I ate last weekend. I’ve been there so often most of the staff knows me by name now. But I’m not picky, and Frank’s has pizza too. “I’m not really a favorites kind of person. Like, colors and movies and shows, you know? It changes…daily, hourly. How do people choose? It feels like too much pressure. I mean, I like all things Italian. Pasta. Pizza is something I never get tired of.” I realize I’ve been rambling too long. “So, yeah, Frank’s is good.”

The smile doesn’t leave his face, but he looks uncomfortable now. I’ve said something wrong.

“What about you?” I ask. “Do you have a favorite food?”

“Burgers.” His answer is quick and decisive. “I’m easy. A plain cheeseburger and fries, and I’m set.”

I wrinkle my nose. “Plain? You monster. No sauce or pickles or tomatoes or anything?”

He chuckles, slipping his hand out of mine to check a text on his phone. Whoever it was, he doesn’t bother to respond—just drops the phone back into his pocket—but this time he doesn’t take my hand again. “I mean, I’ll eat it if it has toppings, but if it’s my choice, nope. Just cheese.”

“That sounds like torture,” I say with a groan, trying to get him to look at me. “I need all the condiments, please.”

“So what are your pizza toppings, then?”

That’s easy. “Pepperoni, banana peppers, green olives.” I eye him. “For you? Just cheese?”

“I don’t mind pepperoni or sausage,” he says, “but to be honest, I’m not a big pizza guy.”

My jaw drops. “Seriously?”

“I know.” He guides me across the street, one hand resting gently against the small of my back. “Monster, remember. I just like what I like.”

“And what do you like, exactly? Tell me some of your favorite things.” I’m really trying here, but I feel like I’ve done something wrong. Upset him somehow. I’m not good at this.

“You’re going to make fun of me,” he says, his voice light. “I want to hear more about you.”

“I swear I won’t.”

He watches me, measuring my expression like he’s waiting for the ice to crack and reveal the lies hidden beneath. But I won’t tease. I forget I don’t have that sort of relationship with Banks yet. I don’t want him to think I’m being cruel.

“Okay. What do I like? Let’s see. The color red. Anything related to history. Tom Hanks movies. Order. Itineraries. Goals. Vanilla ice cream and spreadsheets. I’m your typical, boring Type A.” He rattles the list off like he’s in a rush to get it over with just as we reach Frank’s. He holds the door open for me, but before I pass through, I stop to look at him. Really look.

“I don’t find that boring,” I say, holding his eyes. “Did I…do something wrong?”

His gaze falters, then he lets the door close so we’re standing there on the sidewalk in silence. He draws in a slow breath. “No, you didn’t. I’m sorry. I just—I know what I like and what I want. I’m not self-conscious about it, but it’s an issue for some people. Exes. My dad. When I get something in my head, when I want something, I go after it.” His eyes flick over me.

“Like your degree.”