For now.
She gives me the benefit of the doubt again, and the kindness in that gesture makes something twist uncomfortably inside me. Because I know I don’t deserve that trust. Not tonight.
The waiter returns to take our food order.
I stare at the menu, the words moving slightly on the page. Not dramatically. Just enough to remind me that my control over this situation is more fragile than I’d like.
“What are you having?” she asks.
I look up at her.
“You,” I say.
The word leaves my mouth before my brain can stop it.
Her eyes widen.
My stomach drops.
“I mean— not eat you. Obviously. That would be inappropriate… to eat you… out… at a restaurant. And weird. Not that you’re weird. You’re not weird. You’re…”
I stop.
Abort.
“I don’t quite know what to say to this.” She squints at me like this will allow her to look behind the façade I’ve built so carefully.
The waiter stands there, professionally pretending none of this is happening.
“I’ll have the carbonara,” she says.
“Same,” I reply immediately, because making independent decisions suddenly feels impossible.
The waiter leaves.
She watches me carefully now.
Concerned.
“You’re nervous,” she says again.
“Yes.”
“That’s okay.”
I nod, grateful for her kindness.
I decide to repay it by saying something honest.
“You smell nice,” I tell her.
She smiles.
“Thank you.”
“And your hair.”
She tilts her head.