Page 112 of The One I Hate
I quickly scan my brain. “Are you talking about the time you blurted it out five seconds after I told you I was pregnant?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, Simon.” Bless his eager beaver heart. “I know you like to jump first and figure out the landing on the way down, but I don’t work like that.”
He nods and lets out a breath. “You’re right. I get that. It’s just…I figured that once the baby was born, we’d be moved in together. I’d hoped you were on that page too.”
“I am,” I say, rising on my toes to kiss his cheek. “But I don’t like to assume. If things go in that direction?—”
“When they go in that direction.”
“Whenthey go in that direction, we’ll revisit. But for now, can we be a normal couple and take things at a normal pace?”
Simon pouts, but in a playful way. “Fine. On one condition.”
“Deal.”
“You don’t argue with me on the price of the crib.”
Now it’s my turn to groan. “Deal. But we’re going to buy a reasonably priced stroller.”
“Sorry, Bug, no can do,” Simon says, putting his arm around my shoulders and leading us back to the cribs. “I’ve got my eye on a gold-rimmed one with all terrain wheels and front-wheel suspension.”
“Of course you do…”
“So tell me about yourself.”
I stare blankly at Simon with my bite of lasagna an inch from my mouth. “Excuse me?”
He shrugs as he cuts a piece of his steak. “That’s a first-date question. This is the present. In the present, we’re on our first date, so I figured I’d ask you first-date questions.”
Somehow this makes sense. But is ridiculous at the same time.
Much like me and Simon.
“Okay.” I dab the corners of my mouth with my cloth napkin. “Though I don’t know what you don’t know about me.”
“Well let’s figure it out. We’re together now. We’re on a date. This is what you do when you date. At least that’s what Oliver said.”
“You needed Oliver to tell you about dates?”
Simon takes a sip of his whiskey and leans back slightly in his chair. “Contrary to popular belief, I haven’t dated much.”
I find that hard to believe. “What’s your definition of haven’t dated much?”
He leans forward, resting his forearms on the table. I don’t know why, but at this moment I can’t help but marvel at how his arms fill out his black dress shirt. “Dating to me was more…”
“Short term?”
“Kind of.”
“Temporary.”
“Isn’t that the same thing?”
“Hit it and quit it?”
“That’s more accurate.”
