Bubba gripped my hand tight as we walked up to the Overture Center. I’d never been to this theater before. It was impressive on the outside, a tall building with a front made entirely of glass squares. You could see inside to the soaring open space, bright lights, and milling guests. The crowd was mostly older and well-dressed, much like the theater crowd at home in Chicago. Inside, the lobby was all white. It was a vast space, open to a ceiling at least ten stories above. There were glass and wood staircases and bridges accessing higher levels.
I paused at the coat check while Bubba stared up, eyes wide.
“Would you like to, um, check your coat?” I asked him because it was the proper date thing to do.
Bubba took off his puffer jacket and handed it to me. I hesitated a moment, but I’d look like a fool wearing my coat all night. It was a very practical green everyday parka and not suitable at all.
Reluctantly, I unzipped my coat, gave both to the woman at the coat check, and returned with a ticket stub.
Bubba stared at me. I saw him swallow. “Wow, Sean. Just…wow.”
“I’m aware.” I tugged down the sleeves of the form-fitting new sweater. “Quig talked me into it. He says it looks great with my hair. But it’s… pink.” It was, in fact, a clear, soft, bubble-gum pink. It couldn’t be any pinker if it tried. Not that a sweater could try anything. I now wished I’d played it safe and gotten something green.
“I love it.” Bubba took my hand and pulled me away from the others crowding the coat check. He continued to stare. “Geez, Sean, you look like a model or something. You should be in a magazine.”
I snorted. “My chin is too chubby to be a model. And my eyes are too plain.” But I felt a thrill of pleasure all the same. I would never get tired of Bubba looking at me like that—as though I were attractive.
Bubba shook his head. “I love your chin. And your eyes. But this sweater. Wow. It really does look great with your hair. You look like ice cream sherbet.”
I wasn’t sure that was a thing I aspired to resemble, ice cream sherbet. But it was accurate, what with the orange of my hair and the pink wool. Quig had paired it with a pair of black pants in a technical fabric with lots of zippers and little pockets and things, which, he said, butched up the sweater.
I smoothed my hand along the hip. “I do like the pants.”
“It’s all good,” Bubba insisted. He trailed a finger along my shoulder. “Look at you. You can see that new definition in this sweater. Here’s your trapezoid.” His finger moved down. “Look at these sweet little pecs.”
I flushed hot and grabbed his hand. “Stop that. I don’t want to test the fortitude of these pants.”
He grinned. “Oh, I definitely want to test their fortitude. But maybe later.”
Hot and cold chills of pleasure ran through me under his gaze. It wasn’t the time for that, so I led Bubba deeper into the lobby, followed the signs to our aisle, and allowed the usher to take us to our seats. I felt very confident in my new sweater and thrilled to be with such an eye-catching man. We must have made quite a pair—me with my red hair and pink sweater, and Bubba so large and muscular in his tight black wool, towering above me—because people stared. But now it only made me feel special. And very, very fortunate.
When we were seated, Bubba looked around. It was a state-of-the-art building with circular rows in front of the orchestra and stage. Tiers of balconies rose above us. We were seated in the far left on the floor, two sections back from the orchestra. Anything closer had been ridiculously expensive.
“This is so fancy,” Bubba said in an awed voice. “I’ve never been to a place like this. Only seen them on TV. Like on the Oscars and stuff.”
“This facility is beautiful. The theaters in Chicago are excellent as well. And once, on vacation, we went to the opera in Vienna. That was at the Wiener Staatsoper. It was built in the 1800s and is all gold and red. Talk about elaborate.”
He blinked at me.
“My parents have season tickets to the symphony, the Lyric Opera, and Goodman Theatre,” I explained. “It’s what we do. As a family. They got the season passes because they work so much. Having the tickets forced us to get out regularly and do something together. They’re too frugal to waste tickets.” I smiled. I didn’t add, otherwise they’d work 24/7 every day of their lives. But that was true as well. The trip to Austria had happened because my parents wanted to attend a genetics conference there. But it had been a great trip, regardless.
“Did you like going to all those shows?” Bubba asked. “Even when you were younger?”
I shrugged, recalling the times I’d groused about having to go. I appreciated the effort my parents made more now than I had at the time. “Sometimes. My least favorite was the symphony. I like classical music, but I can’t just sit there and listen to it and do nothing else. I zone out and end up thinking about other things, and that seems like a waste of the seats. I like opera better because there’s spectacle—amazing costumes and sets. But I find most opera music boring. My favorites are the plays. There’s dialogue and a story, and you have to pay close attention to follow it.”
“Like Game of Thrones,” Bubba said knowingly.
I put a hand on his arm and squeezed. “Yes, like Game of Thrones.”
“You miss one episode of that, man, and you’re lost.”
“True.”
He looked up at the people filing into the balcony seats. “So, your folks are rich, huh?” He sounded overly casual.
“Not rich,” I demurred. “They’re both research scientists, so they earn decent salaries. But we’re not millionaires or anything.”
He looked at me sharply. “Research scientists? So they’re super smart. I guess that makes sense since you are too. My dad—he’d never think of coming to something like this.”
“What about your mother?” I asked then wondered if I shouldn’t have. I’d never heard Bubba mention his mother. This was our first real date, and I didn’t want to bring up something painful.
He settled back in his seat and shrugged. “Yeah, she might go to something like this. She left my dad when I was five. She met another guy. A lawyer. She divorced my pop and married him. They live in California now. I talk to her on my birthday and Christmas, but that’s about it. They have a couple of kids of their own so, you know, me and my dad are old news.”
I frowned. “Well, that’s completely unacceptable.”
Bubba looked at me and chuckled. “It is, huh?”
“Of course it is!”
He bit his lips. “Yeah. Guess that’s one reason my dad hates college and lawyers and people like that.”
He did? He probably wouldn’t approve of me then. Or my parents. I wanted to discuss it further, but the lights dimmed, and it was time to settle down for the show.
During intermission, we went out to the lobby. Bubba purchased a glass of wine at the bar because he was twenty-one and old enough to drink even though he was a junior. I was a senior but only twenty since I’d skipped a couple of grades. But we found a bench and he gave me a few sips. The lobby was packed with people milling around. The average age was probably fifty. But there were a few our age, perhaps students from the university.