Page 87 of Tempt

“You’re hanging onto routines as a way to control life.”

Daniel takes a long gulp, his brows rising.

“Too honest?”

“A bit.”

“Sorry. I have good intentions.”

“You like to hear people’s pain. I think it’s easier than letting go of your own.”

Oof.

Daniel, 1. Girl with issues, 0.

“Maybe you should be the therapist.”

He waits me out.

Daniel’s not trying to be a dick. He has this way of being direct that cuts through my cheeriest bullshit.

I dab at my mouth with a napkin. “It’s stupid how it all started. My family was on the road for a basketball tournament of my brother’s. I’d been having stomach pains but Clay was the golden boy, and his team was going to the finals. In the middle of the game, I fell over on the floor. We got to a hospital and found out I had appendicitis. It actually ruptured before they could get it out.

“Do you know how big an appendix is?” I hold up my fingers. “That’s it. But in the end, there were lots of complications. I was in and out for six months. It took me an extra year to graduate. I got to know every person who worked in that wing. But even as I made new friends, they weren’t permanent. And the closer I got with them, the further I got from my real friends and family.

“My dad was working on a big deal. He and my mom only came on the weekend, unless my brother had a tournament. Then they didn’t come at all.”

Daniel listens in silence.

To his credit, there’s no pity on his face. Just compassion tinged with incredulity.

“I can’t imagine abandoning your own child.”

“They had another child who needed them, and spending time with him was more glamorous.” I lift a shoulder. “I’m no doctor and the thought of the MCAT gives me hives. But I’m a pretty good listener. I can be there for someone, while they’re going through whatever it is I can’t fix for them.”

He reaches for my hand under the table, and I squeeze his fingers.

I’m not a PDA girl. But this is basic human comfort.

It’s as if our souls seek one another out.

“I’m not sure we ever get over things,” I say after a moment. “We just get on with them.”

“Cheers to that.” He extends his glass and clinks it with mine.

* * *

For the rest of our meal, I’m lighter than before.

But another feeling is building beneath the surface.

When he smiles or takes a sip of his wine there’s a little tug low in my stomach.

When we share tiramisu for dessert and our forks collide, my breath catches.

When he asks the waitress for the bill and reaches casually for his wallet, I bite my lip.

By the time we finish dinner, it’s not comfort either of us is seeking.

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