Page 47 of Handle with Care
“Aside from being very attractive, Dylan, you’re… something very much moreish.”
“What’s that?”
“Wanting more.”
“Huh.”
Then I realize we’re sitting on a fence, our feet braced on the lower railing. And I realize I’ve made a man with a prosthesis probably do something out of his comfort zone.
“Oh my God, is this comfortable for you? Sitting like this? With your… you know… leg situation.” I’m alarmed.
That breaks the tension, and he laughs. “I’m fine, Dylan. I have a good prosthesis and a good sense of balance. If it wasn’t okay, I’d let you know. Like the migraine situation.”
“Shit. I assumed…”
“It’s okay. Most people do.”
“I don’t think assumptions are okay because the majority of people make them.” I frown slightly. “I think there’s a logical problem there, Mr. Economist.”
Will winces. “I think I preferred Mr. McLaren, actually.”
It’s my turn to laugh. “Be careful what you wish for.” I’m quiet for a minute. “And all this walking is okay?”
“It’s fine. Really.” He looks embarrassed, and I feel embarrassed in turn for making him feel that way. “But it’s really thoughtful of you to check in. I’ll let you know when I get tired. And we can always take a taxi back to the Landie when we’re done in town.”
“Well, okay. Deal.” And there’s another moment where I could kiss him, but then he looks away again, and I don’t push my luck.
Fair. It’s busy, and I don’t know his comfort with affection out in public. Or affection, generally. My way of expressing myself is usually with touch. But I get that he’s more reserved than me. I don’t want to make him even more uncomfortable when I can see something hesitant in his eyes.
“Ready to show me some more sights?” I ask.
“Ready.” He gazes at me for a moment longer than necessary, like he’s really taking stock of me. It’s my turn for a cascade of goose bumps to cover my arms.
Chapter Nineteen
We walk into town, keeping the conversation light as we ease into safer topics. We pass between dramatic old colleges in Cambridge amid the bustle of tourists and students every which way. And before long, we take refuge for lunch in a pub called The Anchor, with a patio overlooking the Cam and its boats—punts, Will tells me—on the river in the middle of the afternoon. Wooden punts are tied up beyond The Anchor’s patio, and beyond, people punt, pushed along with long poles as someone stands on the back, passing by the low Silver Street Bridge. The day is bright, the sky incredibly blue with a touch of broken cloud, the dreamy height of summer.
We’ve been having fun, but his mood shifted after I asked about his leg. I regret bringing it up to upset him.
“I didn’t really answer your question before. About museums. And feeling passionate about something.”
“You’re not obligated to tell me anything. Even with our pact. Which, by the way, I take very seriously.”
He smiles at the reminder, his shoulders easing slightly. Which makes me feel better. “I know. I… I see how excited my parents are about their work and my brother about his. And I kind of want to feel excited about something. Hopeful, I guess.”
I chew my lip, gazing at Will. There’s a lot to take in there. I try to think of what to say that won’t put him on the spot again. “Does working at the museum make you feel hopeful?”
Will nods after a moment. “I think so. I was nervous at first, especially when they sent me to Curatorial from Development. I was totally out of my depth. But you’ve done a lot to help put me at ease and to learn. So, thanks for that. You’ve made a world of difference. You made it possible for me to stay in Curatorial and not feel useless.”
“Aw, thanks. You’re a way better student than I was, believe me. I can’t believe you read those books cover to cover.” I brighten, pleased. I reach for his hand across the table. He tenses for a moment, then relaxes and squeezes back. I gaze down at our hands. “You know you can tell me to fuck off if I’m pushing my luck.”
Will shakes his head. “No, you’re not. I like you, Dylan.” He swallows. “It’s been a long time since I’ve been out with anyone quite like this. Like on a date.”
“Don’t worry, it’s only me here. And I like being on a date with you. I’m having fun. I hope you are too.”
He smiles, reddening. “Yes.”
“And the last thing I want is for you to feel bad or awkward.”
