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“Because. . .?”
“I don’t like noise nor having to yell just so I can have a conversation.”
“Even more so with me, right? I mean, everyone says my voice is just a whisper.”
He leans back in the restaurant chair as if he needs a little more space to watch me. “Out of shyness?” he asks without denying it.
“I think so. Or maybe because, like you, I don’t like shouting either. I’ve had a lot of it in my life.”
I see his brow furrowing in confusion and immediately regret saying too much. Telling him about my past is certainly not a good way to start our conversation.
“Why was there screaming in your past?”
“Not a pleasant conversation to have over dinner.”
“Life isn’t always pleasant, Zoe, but I can handle it.”
“I’m adopted. I lost my parents when I was little. I was welcomed and rejected . . . several times. Most homes were not those of people who really wanted a child, but rather people who liked the idea of having a child, of being parents. Kids are hard work, and I think after a while, they decided I wasn’t worth it.”
For a change, I can’t face him when I tell him that.
“How many times did you go back?”
I play with the linen napkin. “After a while, I lost count, but that’s in the past,” I lie because God only knows how much it hurt me every time; I saw the pity on the social worker’s face when they brought me back. “I was adopted for real when I was eleven, and I got wonderful parents.”
When I look back at him, his face is serious, and his jaw is set. “What happened to your birth parents?”
“They both died within a few years of each other. I don’t even remember my father anymore, to be honest. My mom, yes, but it gets harder and harder to remember our time together.”
“How old are you?”
For the first time since the conversation started, I breathe a sigh of relief. “Eighteen and a half. Too young?”
One of his fingers plays with his lower lip, and it mesmerizes me a little. “Yup. I thought you were at least twenty.”
“What about you?”
“Thirty-five. Too old?” He plays with my last question.
“No. How you made me feel when you kissed me is far more important than our age gap.”
After that, his expression changes. I don’t know much about men, but I think it’s desire. His gaze makes me shiver.
Until now, he only seemed to be studying me, giving me no clue what he thought about me, but in this moment, I feel in every fiber of my being that he wants me.
Yes, I know he said as much before, but the thing is, I don’t really believe in words or promises. I’ve heard a lot of them before, and they were all broken.
Now, however, I feel it, and it makes me eager to have more of whatever he has to teach me.
“Are you done?”
“Yes. Are we going home?”
“Not yet. I thought of doing something different. Do you like to dance?”
“I love it. Why?”
“There’s a friend’s nightclub just a few minutes away.”
