“Was that your longest relationship?”
He took a drink of his Manhattan and winked at me. “Is this an audition?”
Embarrassed, I dropped my eyes to my plate. “No, of course not. I’m just curious.”
“Jill, I’m teasing.” His fingertips touched my wrist; the shortening of my name squeezed my heart. “Yes, it was. Prior to meeting Tara, I had one relationship in college that lasted about eight months.”
“What happened to her?”
“She went home for the summer and got back together with her ex-boyfriend.”
“That stinks.”
He shrugged. “Actually, I didn’t much care. She was jealous and drove me crazy with her constant questions and accusations. And she was always begging me to tell her I loved her.”
“Ah.” I picked up my drink. “And did you?”
“Tell her? Yes.” He sighed and took another sip. “But I didn’t actually love her. And I’m such a bad liar, she probably knew it.”
“Why’d you tell her if it wasn’t true?”
“I was nineteen and had the emotional sensitivity of a rock; she was pretty and liked to have sex. I thought I should tell her what she wanted to hear, and didn’t think it mattered that much.” He winced, closing his eyes. “God, I was really an asshole. I’m an even bigger asshole for saying it out loud, aren’t I?”
“No judgies,” I said honestly, setting my glass down. “Who’s emotionally sensitive at nineteen, anyway? I certainly wasn’t.”
“Maybe not, but you were a hell of a lot of fun.” His twinkling eyes caught mine over the edge of his glass, and my panties melted a little.
Over sushi and crab rangoon we shared favorite memories from our childhoods, and I learned that Levi had grown up in a tight-knit family that believed in tough love, easy forgiveness, and speaking your mind.
“Sounds like my family,” I said. “There’s not much we hold back.”
“Sometimes I wish they would hold back a little,” he confessed. “I know they mean well, and I’m sure they’re all better parents than I am, but I’m doing the best I can. And I know Scotty better than they do.”
“You’re doing an amazing job.” I reached out and touched his sleeve. “I know you are.”
He gave me a smile that warmed my insides. “Thanks.”
“Are you nervous about tonight? About him being away from home, I mean?”
“Yes.” He took a deep breath. “But I’m not going to think about it too much. He seemed OK when I left, and I’ve been dreaming about this for a week.” He paused. “For eleven years, actually.”
“Ha!” I stuck a piece of sushi in my mouth. “Liar.”
“You’d know if I was lying. Believe me.” He picked up a crab rangoon. “So tell me about your family. I don’t even have to ask if you’re close to your sisters. What about your parents?”
“Yes. Everyone is disgustingly close, but like your family, we are very outspoken with each other and that can grate nerves. If I never hear ‘You work too much’ ever again, it’ll be too soon.”
He smiled. “I’ll try to remember that.”
Over sea bass and grilled tuna we shared firsts and favorites, and I learned that his first kiss had been at age fourteen (two years before mine), he lost his virginity at sixteen, (also two years ahead of me), and his favorite thing in the world was when his son rubbed his earlobe.
“That’s so cute,” I said. “Like a little sign.”
“It is cute. And I know he’s happy when he does it, which makes me feel so good.” He took a bite of tuna. “What about you? What makes you feel good?”
“Hmmm. I love laughing with my sisters. I love curling up with a good book and a glass of wine.” I leaned toward him and lowered my voice. “And I feel pretty damn good when I’m naked with you.”
He smiled and leaned in too. “Then you’re gonna feel fucking amazing all night long.”
Check, please.
Over coffee with Bailey’s we described our dream vacations (both of us were torn between the mountains and the beach) and described our perfect day.
“Hmmm, no schedule. I’d definitely sleep in,” he said, lifting his cup to his lips. “Then I’d make a big breakfast for Scotty and me, and maybe take him to an afternoon ball game. We’d eat a bunch of junk food and yell for our team and overpay for souvenirs. Then maybe a nap. Then I’d make dinner—Italian food, because spaghetti and meatballs are his favorite. Cold, of course. After that I’d take Scotty to the symphony. And there would be no tears, no meltdowns, no frustrations.”
Listening to him tell me about his favorite things and perfect day, I could see what he meant about balance—everything was about his son. “What about you?” I asked. “Do you like classical music?”
“I do,” he said, setting his cup down. “I didn’t know much about it until Scotty got interested in it. But I find myself putting it on at work sometimes, or in the car.”
“What’s your favorite meal?”
“You mean besides Jillian pie?”
My cheeks warmed. “Yes. Besides that.”
“I like red meat. Maybe a pan-seared rib eye with roasted potatoes.”
“I’ll remember that.” Although I’d have to learn how to pan-fry a steak. Roasting potatoes sounded easy enough, though. “And what about a perfect day that’s just for you? Would you still do the baseball game and symphony?”