Page 68 of Love Is an Art
There’s a moment when we assess each other. His face looks thinner, like he’s been working hard lately. He shakes my hand. I glance at our clasped hands. We both pause, holding hands a second longer than necessary. And then both pull away.
I scoot into my chair, trying to pull it a slight distance away from his. Luckily, Brooke is on my other side.
Zeke turns toward Tom.
I turn to Brooke.
Tom is happy to completely dominate the conversation with Zeke; he’s very keen on making that business connection, even if in-house counsel usually decides the law firm.
It’s like there’s an electrified wall between me and Zeke. I’m very aware of his every move. His arm brushes mine—shocking me—as we reach for the bread basket at the same time. I pull back awkwardly.
He gestures for me to take it first.
I gather we’re going to pass the whole dinner without exchanging another word.Fine. If he wants to play it like that, I can out-silence anyone.
Should I even try to apologize again? What’s the point? He’s not interested. And I’m not interested in dating some unforgiving dude who wants to date artists.
The butter has been carved into a rose. I glance over at Zeke—as he looks at me. I smile. His lips curve up but then stop. He turns away.
Yeah. I still want the chance to apologize again. I didn’t act with malicious intent.
Our main dishes are served. Brooke and I discuss a recent litigation in the news and discover we have some mutual friends in common. I can’t tell if Zeke is listening in. It’s so clear I’m a lawyer. My stomach plunges, and my peas taste like sawdust, impossible to swallow. It feels more final now. Is he really going to ignore me the whole time?
I ask Brooke what she does for fun and thankfully lead our conversation from any law-related discussion.
Tom is going on and on about his last cases, extolling the abilities of the firm. Zeke shifts next to me. It’s like the brushstroke lecture—but legal.
When Tom pauses to take a breath, I break in and say, “The waiter wants to know if we want dessert or coffee.”
We all give our dessert orders to the waiter, and Paul engages Tom in conversation.
Zeke glances at me and whispers, “We should introduce your colleague to Mr. Brushwork.”
But then his face shutters closed, as if he regrets making that overture.
The dessert and coffee are served. Brooke and I share a fallen chocolate cake. We both mmm about how good it is. Zeke shifts next to me.
His phone buzzes, and he excuses himself to take a call outside. I go to the bathroom to reassess. As I stare in the mirror, I remind myself that I’d planned to use this dinner to make my case.
This is my opportunity. He’s outside alone.
Fine.
It’s a challenge.
I don’t step back from challenges. And we did have something good. I’m worth the risk.
And he did whisper to me.
I walk outside. He’s still on the phone, his back to me.
I keep my distance so as not to intrude or overhear his call, but seeing his back and tall, lean legs … I miss him. A couple is standing near a streetlamp, smoking and discussing something on their phones. A lone cab races uptown on 10thAvenue.
He turns around, and a flash of surprise crosses his face.
“I wanted to apologize again—in person,” I say. “And to say that I was lying about being an artist, but I was still being me. You still know me. I was about to tell you that first night, but then you said you hated lawyers. And my plan was to tell you at MoMA, but then you looked destroyed when you saw your ex. I felt I should wait until you recovered your equilibrium at dinner and then tell you.”
“I get it.”
