He shrugged. “I don’t know. They’re immature. I’m immature. It works.”
“It’s more than that, silly. You’re genuinely good with them. Do you like kids?”
“I like those kids.”
“Do you want your own someday?”
He gave me a frightened glance. “You’re not trying to tell me something, are you?”
“No, no. I’m not pregnant.”
He exhaled a huge sigh of relief. “Thank God. I don’t think I’d make a very good father.”
“I think you’re wrong,” I said, “but I promise the question was purely out of curiosity and not necessity.”
“What about you? Let me guess—you want a whole dozen of them.”
“Maybe not a dozen, but yes. I do.” I sighed. “You’ll probably think this is stupid and boring, but I love the idea of a house full of kids, a swing on the front porch, bikes in the yard, finger paintings on the refrigerator, lemonade stand on the sidewalk…”
“Wow, that’s really specific.”
“I know. It’s just how my brain works—I picture all the details in the background.”
“But it’s not stupid or boring, Claire. And I happen to love lemonade.” He reached over and took my hand, giving it a quick squeeze. “Hey, Peyton’s birthday is coming up. Want to help me shop for a gift?”
I wasn’t sure if he’d intentionally changed the subject or not, but I let it go. It didn’t really matter. We’d only been seeing each other for a month, after all, and I was enjoying myself. For once, my present was as enticing as my dream about the future.
But I warned my mother not to ask Theo a bunch of questions about the future when we met my parents for dinner. She seemed offended that I’d even make such a request, and I will admit that she behaved herself very well at the restaurant. Only once did I have to kick her under the table, when she sighed dramatically and lamented her lack of grandchildren: “It’s like my daughters want to punish me or something.”
Theo had been a good sport, although unlike when we were at dinner with my friends, he was visibly anxious—at least to me. My parents might not have noticed the jittering leg or the sheen on his forehead, but I did. Several times during the evening, I took his hand and held it beneath the table. Each time, he sent me a grateful smile.
The night went well. Although my dad was slightly disappointed Theo hadn’t gone to Yale or Ohio State, they were able to talk a lot about football. And my mother was charmed by his manners, his smile, and his conversation skills. “You can just tell he was raised right,” she said to me in the ladies room. “Even if he didn’t go to Yale.”
We spent most of our time at my house, but I did get to see his apartment one Saturday, a sparsely furnished one-bedroom with nothing on the walls, only the barest essentials in the kitchen, and a view of the parking lot from all the windows.
“Think you’ll stay here?” I asked him, opening a kitchen drawer. “My God, Theo. You have plastic utensils. And they’re not even in trays, they’re still in the bags.”
“Yeah, I meant to get some silverware; I just never got around to it.” He went into the bedroom to grab clean clothes for work the next day.
“Please let me help you outfit this kitchen,” I called out. “And maybe put some pictures up. Or I’ll give you a painting. But all these white walls are so sterile. It’s creepy.”
“I’d love a painting.” He came out of his bedroom with a bag over his shoulder. “And speaking of that, did you send the application today for the July art fair?”
I blushed as I shook my head, my gaze dropping to the floor.
“Why not?”
“Because I’m scared.”
“We talked about this. And the deadline is in two days.”
I met his disapproving glare. “I know.”
He grabbed me by the hand. “Come on.”
Tugging me along like an obstinate child, he stuck me in the car, drove to my house, pulled me out again, and hustled me inside. “Get your laptop.”
I dragged my feet, but I went into the spare bedroom I used as an office and unplugged it, bringing it to the living room where he stood waiting.
He pointed at the couch. “Sit. Open it.”
I did as he asked, biting my lip when I saw the online application still up on the screen. The Submit button taunted me.
“Do it.” Theo stood over me. His height and broad chest were intimidating.
My stomach churned. This was it. Once I hit that button, my artwork in the form of five attached images—would be out there for people to judge. I would be out there for people to judge. What if I wasn’t good enough? “I don’t think I’m ready.”
“You are.”
“No, really. I’m a good teacher, but—”
“Claire.”
I looked up at him helplessly, searching for sympathy in his brown eyes, but finding only defiance. “You don’t understand. You’re asking me to send my naked heart and soul, myself, out there in the cold, dark woods where wolves will be prowling.”
“Claire.”
“Maybe bears. And I’m naked.”
“Oh, Jesus. Listen to me.” He sat down next to me on the couch. “You are good enough. Say it.”
“I’m good enough.” But I didn’t believe it.