Page 59 of Everything You Want Me to Be
“Thank you.”
“Happy birthday.”
It made me warm to hear his voice, so low and close to my ear. I didn’t think I could be any happier than I was at that moment, standing quietly next to him, with the whole evening ahead of us and no one else in the world to intrude. I turned toward him and gave him a flirty grin.
“Is this my only present?”
He lifted a finger and brushed it along my jaw. “I don’t know yet.”
I stepped closer, angling my head up. “How can I help you decide?”
He didn’t disappoint. Slowly, so slowly, he leaned in and kissed me. It was unlike any kiss I’d had, made up more of air and promises than actual flesh. I felt myself getting weak, getting wet. I reached for his shirt buttons, but he stopped me.
“No.”
“No?” I said it like I’d never heard of the word before.
He laughed and wound my scarf around my neck. “We’re going out.”
It was effing cold, so we took the skyway, walking from skyscraper to skyscraper in the second-story labyrinth of shops and corporate offices. Most of the stores were closed for the weekend so we just window-shopped and wandered into the few that were open. Peter led us on a meandering route over Nicollet Mall and then we hit the streets to walk through the more crowded theater district. I recognized one of the old lightbulb marquees where I’d gone to seeThe Nutcrackerwhen I was ten.
“You mean last year?” he teased.
“I don’t know, old man. Why don’t you carve it into a stone tablet so I can understand how young I am?”
“I left my chisel at home.” He casually slid my glove into his and we kept walking like we did this every day, and no one we passed even glanced in our direction.
We went on—playing, baiting each other, both of us acting drunk even though we were completely sober—until we came to a restaurant with blue lights that rose three stories high.
“Hungry?” he asked, opening a door made out of bright mosaic tiles.
Since it was early afternoon, there weren’t a lot of people eating and we got seated right away. It turned out to be a tapas restaurant, one of Peter’s favorites, and he told me to order anything I wanted. Soon our table was filled with tiny plates of exotic food and I tried everything. Although a few things tasted weird, most of it was delicious. My favorite was a beef tongue wrapped in cabbage with this amazing dipping sauce. When I offered some to Peter, he declined.
“I’m a vegetarian.”
“What?” I was thrown. I scanned the table, like I could find some evidence of him eating meat, and realized all the dishes on his side were cheeses, vegetables, and breads. It was such a mundane thing, but somehow it shook my confidence, took us another step apart.
“What else don’t I know about you?”
He smiled and thought for a second before answering.
“I hate tofu.” His lip even curled as he said it. “It’s probably a vegan sin, but the stuff always reminds me ofSoylent Green.”
“I’ve never eaten tofu.”
“Lucky.”
I laughed. “Why’d you become a vegetarian?”
“My mom was. She basically raised me as one.”
“I love my mom’s chicken and biscuits.”
“I love my mom’s roasted portobellos.”
“Mushrooms are gross,” I declared. “Who decided it was okay to eat fungus?”
“Fungi.”
