Page 20 of The Seven Year Slip

I almost choked on my wine. “I’m sorry—you’re kidding?”

“Once I get in, I can climb the ranks,” he replied with another one-shouldered shrug, and dug into the paper bag for the firstvegetable. He took out a tomato, and the large chef’s knife from the worn knife roll, the blade sharp, and started to dice it. His cuts were quick, without hesitation, the silver of his blade flashing against the yellowish-white light of the god-awful multicolored chandelier my aunt had “reclaimed” off the street.

“So,” he went on as he worked, “now that you know all about me, what about you?”

I blew out a breath through my lips. “Oof, whataboutme? Grew up in the Hudson Valley, and then Long Island, and I’ve been in the city half my life. Went to NYU for art history, then got a job in book publishing, and now I’m here.”

“Have you always wanted to work in book publishing?”

“No, but I like where I am now.” I took another sip of my rosé, debating whether or not to tell him the other things about me—the trips abroad, the passport filled with so many stamps it’d impress any lifelong traveler, but every time I showed it to someone they’d get this idea about me. That I was some child of chaos with a wild heart, when, in reality, I was just a scared girl hanging on to my aunt’s blue coattails as she spirited me across the world. I sort of only wanted him to see the real me—the me who never left the city, not even to visit her parents on Long Island anymore, the me who went to work and came home and watchedSurvivorreruns on the weekend and couldn’t even set aside a few hours to go to her ex-boyfriend’s art show.

So I decided not to, and said, “Well, that’s me in a nutshell. An art-history-major-turned-book-publicist.”

He gave me a weighted look and pursed his lips. He had a freckle on the left side of his bottom lip, and it was almost impossible not to look at it. “Somehow, I feel like you’re selling yourself a little short.”

“Oh?”

“It’s a feeling,” he said, grabbing another tomato from the paper bag, and gave another one-shouldered shrug. “I’m pretty great at reading people.”

“Oh?”

“In fact, I’m pretty sure I’m halfway to figuring out your favorite color.”

“It’s—”

“No!” he cried, holding the knife up to me. “No. I’m going to guess it.”

That amused me. I looked pointedly at the tip of his knife until he realized he had it angled at me, and then he quickly returned it to the cutting board. “Are you, now.”

“It’s my one superpower, let me impress you with it.”

“Fine, fine,” I said, because I was sure he wasn’t going to guess it—after all, it was one of the most surprising things about me—and watched him slide the diced tomatoes to the side of the board and then take out an onion to peel it. He was very deft with his hands, mesmerizing in a way I could watch for hours.

“Well?” I asked. “What’s my favorite color?”

“Oh, I’m not going to guess it now,” he replied coyly. “I barely know you yet.”

“There’s not much to know.” I gave a shrug, watching him dice the onion. “I’m pretty boring. My aunt was the one with all the cool stories.”

“Are you and your aunt close?” he asked.

I glanced up from his hands, having not heard the last question. “Hmm?”

He lifted his gaze to meet mine. His eyes were the loveliest pale gray, darker at the center than the edges, so slight you had to get very close to see. “You and your aunt, you two seem close.”

The present tense sent a shiver down my spine. It was unexpected and startling, like a douse of cold water to the face.Right, in his time she’s still alive, somewhere in Norway with me, being chased by a walrus on the beach.It made me feel, for a moment, like she really was still here. Flesh and blood. Like she could waltz into the apartment at any moment and pull me into one of her bone-crushing hugs, and I’d breathe her in—Marlboro cigarettes and Red perfume and hints of lavender from the laundry detergent.My darling Clementine,she would say.What a lovely surprise!

I swallowed the knot forming in my throat. “I... guess we are close.”

As he put the chopped onions into a separate bowl, he glanced at me and frowned. “That look again.”

I blinked, tearing myself out of my thoughts, and purposefully made my face blank. “What look?”

“Like you’re tasting something sour—you had that look before.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I replied, mortified, and pressed my hands to my face. “How do I look?”

He laughed, soft and gentle, and put down his knife. “Your eyebrows crinkle. May I?”

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