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“Let me guess. Now you’d be willing to increase it if it fits your agenda?”
“Could be. But that’s for neither here nor now. Who was the girl?”
“It was an accidental kiss with Cecy when we were in secondary school. We were running, I fell on top of her and our lips touched. It was nothing.”
“Cecily didn’t drink.”
“Because, as I said, it was nothing.”
“You obviously didn’t categorize it asnothingor you wouldn’t have taken that shot.”
“You underestimate my ability to get as much alcohol in me as possible any chance I get. In the past, I mean. I’m clean now except for that drink I stole from Gemma and the others.”
He traces the rim of his glass with a nonchalance that doesn’t deceive me. “Do you miss the alcohol?”
“Hmm.” I slurp my mojito and stare at the mint leaves. “I do sometimes, but I guess I rather miss the escapism it gave me more than the taste itself. The hangover usually came with emptiness, and I dreaded it so much that I fell back into the addiction headfirst. In reality, I don’t believe I miss it, no.”
I pause. It’s true. I don’t miss it. Not the alcohol, the mundane shallow clubbing circles, or the dancing and fooling around and attempting to attract attention. Everyone noticed me except for the one I craved.
My gaze flits to his and something mysterious shines bright behind those dark-grays.
He feels different today and I can’t put my finger on why. Is it because we finally fucked? Is it the possibility of more?
Or is it something entirely different?
The waiter comes to take our order. After we place it, I lean my cheek on my hand and watch him. Like, really watch him. The light flecks of gray and blue in his otherwise stormy eyes, the sharp line of his jaw, the dispassionate look on his face. He appears a bit tired, though nothing is particularly out of place. Everything about him is controlled to the most minuscule detail.
Now that I think about it, the only time he loses control, momentarily, is when his body touches mine.
I wish I knew what he thinks about. I’d be a fly on the wall of his brain if he’d just permit me a front-row seat. Or maybe not a fly since that could be bad. A neuron. A memory, perhaps.
Except for the one when I made a fool out of myself.
“So who knows about your unorthodox method to get me off alcohol?” I ask with no actual bitterness. Probably because I feel none. At least, not anymore.
“No one does for sure. They think I helped like a very devout husband.”
I snort. “If there was an award for the least devout husband, you’d win it with flying colors.”
“Hardly.”
“I really want to remember so I can know what on earth I was thinking when I agreed to marry you.”
“It was the best decision you’ve ever made.”
“Hardly,” I shoot back with a smile. “You’re, like, at the very end of my possible prospects.”
“Possible prospects being who, exactly?”
“Nice try. If I give you names, you’ll sabotage them for laughs, and I can’t turn a blind eye to your toxic habits anymore.” After all, I already have his attention now. I’m just not sure if it’s the right type of attention.
Or if this sort of fickle attention will ever develop into something more.
His fingers tighten around his glass the slightest bit, a change of body language I wouldn’t have noticed if I wasn’t observing him with hawk-like attention. “Did you wake up today and decide to transform my life into hell?”
“Don’t be silly.” I play with my straw. “I wake up every day with those thoughts.”
He shakes his head with bitter concession, and I smile as the waiter brings me my falafel salad and hummus dip.
