“You’ve done that, haven’t you?” I ladle more calamari onto my plate. “You’ve succeeded.”
He glances up. Our gazes collide with surprising force. The light I’d thought was gone from his eyes is back again now, burning like twin candle flames. He’s changed since the day he walked in the front door, as if he’s shed the weary fatigue and hollowness that had been clinging to him. As if he’s starting to come back to life.
A tense, warm feeling coils inside me. If being here with us has done this to him, then I never want him to leave.
“I meant to tell you I got a few more lenses for the school cameras.” He nudges the bowl of mussels toward me in invitation. “You can all start to work on your close-up and macro photography skills. It’s a whole different way of looking at the world from what I do.”
“A lot of the kids are talking about wanting to be photographers.” Opening a mussel shell, I pick at the meat with a little fork. “Simon is planning to ask people to let him take their senior portraits.”
“Simon, huh?” Darius sits back, amusement rising to his eyes. “He sticks close to you.”
Though a flush heats my neck, I don’t like where this is going. “So?”
“So as a guy who’s had many crushes on girls in my lifetime, I know the signs. Has he asked you out yet?”
“No.” I wipe a crumb off my lip. I’m also not all that thrilled about Darius having had many crushes on girls. In his lifetime. “He just mentioned going to a movie once.”
“Ah. Did you say yes?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Just didn’t feel like it. Besides, I’m pretty sure he likes my friend Clover.”
A crease appears between Darius’s eyes. “Your father would like to see you go out with your peers more often.”
“I know.” I tighten my fingers on the fork. “But I’d rather do what I want to do. Not what he wants me to do.”
He nods slightly in acknowledgment. “Does that include your college plans?”
Tension rolls through me. I stab my fork into another mussel.
“It includes everything.” I lift my head to look him in the eye. “Did he tell you what happened after my mother died?”
Darius’s mouth tightens. “He did.”
“Well, then. You should have a pretty good idea of why I don’t like hanging out with my peers and why Evergreen College is the obvious choice.”
He’s silent for a minute. “I’m sorry, Nell. I didn’t know. I wish I had.”
I turn back to my food, upset that this turn of conversation is shadowing what has been a very nice evening.
“It doesn’t matter,” I finally say, even though of course it did.
“How are you both doing?” The server stops by to refill our water glasses. “Would you like any dessert?”
“I’m too full.” I pat my belly regretfully because I love dessert. “Maybe next time.”
“Let’s get it to go.” Darius picks up the menu again.
“Can we bring something back for Dad, too?”
“Sure.”
The server packages up baklava, walnut cake, and an ekmek kataifi for us to take with us. Darius pays the bill, and we head back home. It’s a warm night, and I’m both drowsy and wonderfully satiated from the meal.
“Thanks so much.” I pull the seatbelt around me. “That was delicious.”
“My pleasure.” He guides the car toward the street. “Think you’ll be ready for dessert by the time we get back? I’ll make coffee. I’ve been practicing.”
“And stepping up your brew game.” I grin. “You couldn’t work as a barista yet, but your coffee has definitely improved.”
“Glad you’ve noticed.” He returns my smile. “I even bought a gourmet roast the other day. It should go great with our dessert.”
“In that case, I can’t resist. Not that I would have anyway,” I admit ruefully. “When it comes to sweet stuff, I’m a lost cause.”
“You’re not a lost cause, Nell.” His voice is a warm, deep rumble. “Just the opposite.”
That would make me a found cause. I’ve never thought of myself that way before. I’ve never imagined anyone else would either.
But now? I’m intensely warmed at the thought that Darius has already “found” me, as if he reached into a damp, gritty sandbank and liberated a piece of glass polished by the sea.
CHAPTER 14
Nell
When we get back home from the Mediterranean Café, my father’s car isn’t in the driveway or garage. Darius checks his phone and relays the information that he went out for drinks with a few of his colleagues after the lecture.
“That’s a first.” I drop my purse onto the kitchen counter. “He never socializes.”
“Never?” He starts filling the coffeepot with water.
“He goes out to lunch with people sometimes, but it’s always in a work context.” I arrange the desserts on the table beside the wildflower bouquet and set out two forks. “He’s really involved with his field, though, so it’s not like he’s a hermit. He goes to a few conferences every year, and of course he has all his students. I think he’s just too busy to have a social life. That’s why I was surprised when he said he was going tonight. Because of you.”
He chuckles. “No, he just wanted to show off how much smarter he is by forcing me to talk to his illustrious colleagues.”
“No way is he smarter. He knows more about dried-up old history, but you know a lot more about life.”
Teach me.
I barely manage to swallow the plea. It slides back into me and blooms hot and hard right beneath my heart.
“What I know isn’t always good.” Darius turns away to start the coffee brewing.
I don’t care. I want to know everything he does, the horrible and the intensely pleasurable. He pushes himself right up against life, absorbs it into his skin. He must feel right to the marrow of his bones.
After retrieving a knife, I divide each of the three desserts and set them on plates.
The house has a different atmosphere without my father at home. Even though he’s holed up in his office most of the time, I’m always aware of his presence. This is one of the few times I’ve been alone here with Darius.
“So how is your book going?” I bite appreciatively into the sweet, flaky baklava.
He shakes his head. “Not great.”
“Why not?”
“I’m supposed to have three chapters to my editor before December.” He pushes another portion of dessert toward me and picks up his coffee. “The deadline for the full manuscript is next June, but I haven’t even written the first sentence yet.”
“You were never much of a writer, were you?”
“No, I guess not.”
“I mean, you sent us a lot of postcards, but you never wrote letters,” I explain. “You told stories through photographs instead.”
“The book will have some of my photos, but I have to write the actual memoir.” He scratches his head with a frown. “I don’t know where to start.”