Page 24 of Taking A Chance

Silence fills the room for a little while; me, concentrating on being still, him on his work. This time allows me to simply reflect. It’s almost meditation. The stillness, the inability to act on any thought that might pop up. I can’t answer my phone or get on my laptop. Sitting in one attitude, in this case, is a little refreshing.

“So, did you boys go out looking for more cake last night?” I ask.

“Cake?” he repeats.

“Ryan calls me carrot cake,” I say. “I assume he lovingly flavors all his women.”

To my surprise, Declan laughs. It’s deep and genuine. “No, we didn’t. And yes, he does and for the record I hate it.”

“You hate cake?”

“God no. I hate that he calls womencake,” he says. “I love actual cake.”

“Me too,” I say. “But not carrot cake.”

“My mother makes a lemon blueberry cake. It’s my favorite,” he says.

“Oh my god, that sounds amazing.” It’s no secret I love cake. All kinds of cake. One of the reasons I’m okay with a few extra pounds in my trunk. I have thick thighs, so what? I hear they save lives. It’s worth it for the damn cake.

Silence falls over us again as I realize we were almost having a whole damn conversation without arguing.So close.

“Where does your mother live?” I ask. The question seems innocent enough not to spur a heated debate.

“Not far from here, actually,” he says. “My parents have lived in the same house since I was born.”

“Wow, long time. Exactly how long would that be?” I ask, thinking it’s a sly way to discern his age.

“Since I was born? Are you asking me how old I am?”

Damn. Caught.Okay, maybe it wasn’t that sly.

“What? No. But since you brought it up, how old are you?” I ask, doing a poor job of covering my tracks.

Declan laughs again, flicking his wrist and turning the direction of the brush against the canvas. “I’m thirty-four. How old are you?”

“Thirty-two,” I say.

He raises an eyebrow. “Thirty-two and you own your own company? Impressive.”

“Yeah, well, apparently most men find it intimidating. Or at least that’s the reason they give me for not wanting another date sometimes.” I shrug, exhausted from the mere mention of it. I’ve heard that excuse more times than I can count. I don’t fully understand it. I’m not intimidated by their jobs or success. I’m not intimidated by talents.

Declan, for example, is an extremely accomplished artist, a truly talented guy. But I don’t sit here and compare my lot to his or size my achievements up next to his. That’s stupid and sets you up for constant dissatisfaction with life in general.

“Intimidated?” he asks. “Sounds like bullshit to me. Or just a whole lot of weak men.”

Oh. Yes. Yeah, that. Weak men.“Well, it would seem that’s the only kind attracted to me.” I offer a self-deprecating laugh, but Declan doesn’t join in. His eyes study my face. For the painting or because of what I’ve said, I’m not sure, but something gives him pause. He makes a barely audiblehmsound and returns to his work.

“What?” I ask, too curious to let it go.

“Nothing,” he says, shrugging. “I just don’t understand men.”

“Meaning?” I ask.

Declan tilts his head back and forth, as if considering his words carefully. “I’m not sure I should say.”

“Well, now you have to,” I reply, giving a little laugh.

“Just don’t get mad and storm out, okay?” He sighs.

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