Page 8

I look down.

My fingers are curled around the red fabric.

I make myself let go.

"My sister picked it. I don't usually wear red. I don't usually do any of this." I gesture at the rooftop, the string lights, the city glittering past the railing. "And apparently I don't do relationships very well either."

"You're judging yourself for that man's behavior?"

"I was the girl who didn't see him for who he was."

His gaze cuts toward the elevator. Something hard moves behind his eyes. "I should've made him apologize for speaking to you the way he did."

"You look like you're still considering it."

"I am." His eyes return to mine, the anger still there beneath his calm. "But you'd already told him to go. I just made sure he heard you."

His gaze drops briefly to my Manhattan, then lifts to meet mine.

"You checked on the woman behind you before you checked your own ankle."

He lets that sit for a moment.

"Who taught you that everyone else comes first?"

My Manhattan stops halfway to my mouth.

Nobody has ever noticed that.

Not Mark, in eight months of dinners where I made sure he ordered first.

Not my mother, who calls when she needs money and never asks whether I've eaten. Not even my sisters, because I've spent their whole lives making sure they never had to notice.

I don't feel exposed.

I feel seen, and I'm not sure I know the difference until this moment.

One makes me want to run.

The other makes me want to stay and find out what he'll notice next.

I set the glass down before I spill it.

Then I do what I always do when someone gets too close to the truth.

I make it funny.

"Do you do this to everyone?" I ask.

He doesn't smile. He holds my gaze until I'm the one who looks away first.

"You're the first person I've wanted to read in a long time."

For once, I don't have a comeback ready.

"That's not an answer," I finally say.

"Neither was yours."