I kind of want to laugh right now. It’s an odd sensation because this isn’t funny, not at all. I’ve just never realized other people know exactly how I feel. I thought this was just my thing, my burden. I don’t know why it never occurred to me—that other people would have similar experiences. My group of friends have their own parent issues, but none of us are similar.
I want to reach across the table and grab his hand, but there are too many plates of sushi to navigate around.
“I get it . . . what you’re saying,” I say, offering words instead.
He looks up at me, his lips pulling upward. “I didn’t mean to get so serious on you.”
“Yeah, that escalated quickly,” I say, making a joke to lighten the mood.
Henry lets out a small laugh. “Sorry. It’s not what I meant to tell you. I just opened my mouth, and that’s . . . what came out of it.”
“What did you mean to tell me?” I ask.
He reaches up and rubs the back of his neck. “That I don’t like cake . . . or ice cream.”
“What?” I pull my face back with my most horrified expression. Is he not human?
“Yeah, I don’t tell a lot of people because, I mean, the look on your face is pretty much the response I get whenever I admit to it.”
“You don’t like cake or ice cream.”
He places his hands in his lap. “Nope, not either.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Cake is . . . well, it’s mostly dry, isn’t it? And the only thing good on a cake is the icing. And ice cream is just . . . well, it’s cold.”
I laugh. I thought his first admission was shocking.
“I’m not sure I can get over this,” I say through my laughter.
“But you don’t mind the first bit,” he says, chuckling.
“The first bit I get, I know how that is,” I offer. “The cake and ice cream . . . I’m at a loss.”
We’re both chuckling, the mood making so many changes in just a few short minutes, it probably has whiplash.
“So you’ve got a parent you disappoint, too?” he asks.
My smile drops. “Yeah.”
“Why?”
I don’t want to tell him. It’s too much. Plus, I feel like Henry’s in a bubble with me. That he doesn’t even notice my extra pounds. That if I were to tell him, it would be like a little pin popping the balloon and his apparent blinders to my weight would be removed. I realize it’s a dumb thought. It doesn’t even make any sense. Yet this is how I feel.
I take a deep breath. “It’s . . . my mom. She’s always on me about my . . . appearance.” I choose my words carefully, ones that I’m comfortable with.
Henry’s brows pull inward. He looks genuinely confused. “Really?”
I shrug, briefly. “She . . . she just likes things a certain way.”
Henry nods. “And . . . your appearance doesn’t meet her standards,” he says, confusion in his voice.
I tap my finger on my nose, as if to say, Bingo. But it’s not quite a bingo, since it’s not that my mom disapproves of how I look—she always says how beautiful I am—she just thinks my weight is a problem.
“I don’t understand. I mean, how you look—your ‘appearance’ or whatever—that’s the least interesting thing about you.”
My eyes had lowered to the table at some point, not wanting to make eye contact with Henry and have him see more than I’m willing to convey, but at that declaration, they move straight back to his intense gaze.
“What?”
“Well, don’t get me wrong, love, I appreciate your beauty. Very much. But your brain—the person you are—I find that much more interesting.”
Those tendrils of love that I mentioned earlier? They’ve just extended their branches even farther. A huge jump, if I’m being honest.
I swallow. Before those feelings extend any further, I need to tell him everything. Right now. “Henry, I—”
I’m interrupted by his phone. He holds up a finger to me and pulls it out of his pocket. “I’d ignore this, but the whole new job thing . . .”
“Totally fine,” I say, shaking my head quickly. I relax slightly inside. This gives me a few more minutes to pull it together. You can do this, Quinn.
“Hello?”
I watch his face as his brows pull inward when I hear the muted sounds of someone responding to him on the other end. He listens for a few seconds, offering a few “yeses” and “mm-hmms” as responses. There are no smiles, no looks of excitement. He looks more perplexed.
It’s difficult to try to piece together a one-sided conversation.
“I’m sorry, can I put you on hold for a moment?” he says into the phone. He looks at me and, covering the bottom part of his phone with his hand, says in an almost whisper, “I’m just going to pop outside and take this, okay? Be right back. I’m so sorry.”
I nod my head and then watch him walk out of the restaurant. We’re seated near the front of the building, and I can see him on his phone pacing back and forth in front of the window. It’s dark outside, but there’s enough streetlight to see that he seems flustered.
I worry suddenly that just after we’ve had this semi—well, mostly—intense dinner that something will have changed with his work status and he’s going to walk in here and tell me he has to go back to Miami. That would be my luck. I find this man who so far seems like what I’ve been waiting for my whole life, as cheesy as that sounds, and he’d have to leave.
His words ring in my ears as I sit here, waiting for him to get back. Your appearance is the least interesting thing about you. Is that really true? I mean, obviously looks and appearance should be only a small part of a relationship—initial attraction and all that. Have I put so much emphasis on that that I’ve forgotten that there’s so much more?
“I’m so sorry,” I hear Henry say, and look up to see him standing next to the table. “There’s been a bit of an . . . emergency with my old job. It’s a long story. I promise to explain later. I just need to run back to the hotel and continue this call. I’m so sorry to cut this short.” He opens his wallet and throws some money down on the table as I scoot out of the booth.
“Is everything okay?” I ask, feeling my stomach churn. What if his old job has gotten wind of the new one? What if they’re calling right now to offer him more money or another title or something? What if it’s something he can’t say no to? Could this all end before it really starts?
Don’t get ahead of yourself, Quinn.
“I think so,” Henry says. “I’ll tell you more soon.” There’s an urgency to his tone as we walk out of the restaurant.
As soon as the door opens, the Orlando heat wraps around me, creating instant dew on my face.
“I’ll call you tomorrow,” Henry says, reaching over and grabbing my hand. He pulls me toward him and places a kiss on my forehead. “I’m so, so sorry.”
“It’s fine,” I say, giving him my best everything-is-fine smile. “Go. Go take your call.” I shoo him away with my hand.
He smiles at me and then looks down at the phone he’s clutching in his hand, and then he turns and walks away.