We sat at my table laughing over plates of meatloaf, mac and cheese, and glasses of white wine. I took another sip from mine and noticed his hadn’t moved since I’d poured it.
“You don’t drink,” I finally said. It had been the same the night before. His red wine glass was full when he carried everything back to his small kitchen.
“Busted,” he laughed, pushing the glass to the side. “I quit a few years back.”
Chewing my lip, I was dying to know more. “Are you in AA?”
“No.” His eyes seemed to glow when they met mine again. “I respect their program, but I’ve never been an addict.”
Unsure what that meant, I smiled and forked a big bite of mac and cheese casserole. “You can sleep here tonight if you want.”
“Oh, queenie, I plan to do so much more than sleep.”
No denying, my stomach did a full 360-degree flip then.
* * *
Dinner finished, dishes washed, we walked outside on my side porch. It was uncovered, and we leaned against the low brick wall that formed my balcony, watching the stars blanketing the sky. Occasionally, we’d see a white streak low in the west.
“Can you believe some people have never seen a shooting star?” I asked, turning to meet his gaze.
He’d been so controlled and quiet the whole night, I wasn’t sure what to make of it. At the club today, we’d been friendly, flirty even. Tonight it was different, more formal, as if he was holding back.
“Some people live all their lives in the bright lights of the city.” His voice was quiet. “They have no idea what they’re missing, and yet they think they’re the center of the universe.”
“It sounds like you have experience with that.”
He exhaled and wrapped an arm over my shoulder. “I have some experience, but none of it compares with getting to know you.”
Allowing my eyes to travel over his face, I took in his expression—tense forehead, chin not quite tucked, but ready.
“So let’s get to know each other. What’s the earliest thing you remember?”
He relaxed but shook his head. “My childhood was pretty shitty. What’s the earliest thing you remember?”
“My parents were really normal. I thought they were so square. They took me to the state park every fall for cranberries
, church every Sunday. For no real reason, all I ever wanted to do was be different from them.”
His eyes flickered around my face. “I bet you succeeded in that.”
Blinking down, I nodded. “More than you know.”
“What was your favorite hobby? Swimming? Riding bikes?”
I laughed and blinked down. “Finger painting.”
“What?” he laughed.
“My dad and I always butted heads, but my mom found that she and I could relate through art. She wasn’t an artist, but she had a great eye.”
“So you went to galleries?”
“We lived right here in Bayville, so no. We finger painted together.” Smiling, I studied my hands in my lap. “She’d check out books from the library on the works of famous painters, and we’d recreate them with finger paint.”
I could see him considering what I’d said. “Sounds—”
“Silly? It was silly, but we enjoyed spending the time together. Then I decided to go to art school, and the rest is history.”