Page 64 of A Duet of Darkness and Dreams

“Yeah, sorry about that. You were . . . well, you were wasted and could barely walk. I was going to get two rooms, but the guy who worked in the office looked like he might try something fishy and I didn’t want to leave you alone in that state.”

My heart swells. He was trying to take care of me? “Thank you for that. I’m sorry you had to babysit my drunk ass. I’m just glad you were coherent enough, otherwise we might both have ended up in some back-alley dumpster.”

He takes a drink of his water and looks away. “I wasn’t drunk.”

I narrow my eyes and laugh. “Oh, come on. I watched you drink at least seven beers within the first two hours that we were out. How can you not be drunk after that?”

He fidgets with the salt and pepper shakers on the table. “I uh—I only drink nonalcoholic beer.”

The smile falls off my face. “You—wait, what?”

He shrugs. “I don’t drink. But people expect me to, so . . .”

“Dave, that’s—but why?”

He looks up at me, and that’s when I register the tiredness in his eyes. “I’ve seen what alcohol does to people. And I—I don’t trust myself enough not to turn into someone who abuses it.”

My stomach flips. “Oh.” Is that what he thinks of me? Does he think I abuse alcohol to escape my problems? I mean, last night I kind of did . . . but it’s not like I do that all the time.

Almost as if on cue, the waitress returns to take our order. After we’ve both said what we want and she’s left, he continues to stay quiet while simultaneously organizing the sugar packets in the container.

“Dave, it’s fine if you don’t drink. There’s nothing wrong with that. Why do you feel like you have to hide it?”

He shrugs.

“Oh god,” I say, the realization that I acted like a total buffoon in front of someone completely sober creeping up my neck and into my face. “You must have thought I was a total idiot last night. I’m so embarrassed.”

“No, no,” he says, and his hands abandon the now color-coded sugar packets to pull mine away from my face. I should just tell the cook to fry my eggs right on my forehead. “You weren’t an idiot. You were adorable, feisty, and . . . rightfully mad at me.”

Is he actually admitting that he acted like a jerk? “I wasn’t mad,” I say, giving a half-hearted shrug of my shoulder.

He grins. “Yeah, you were. And you were right to be. I—” He rubs the back of his neck again. “I wasn’t exactly . . . I was a jerk to you yesterday, in more ways than one, and I’m sorry. You didn’t deserve that.”

I wasn’t expecting a flat-out apology. “Wow, well . . . thank you. And for the record, I’m sorry too. For . . . you know, getting wasted. That’s not—I’m not normally like that.”

He nods. “I know. It’s okay.”

“And thank you for taking care of me last night. I can only imagine what a mess I was.”

“You weren’t so bad. At least you threw up in the toilet.”

I can practically feel my soul leave my body. “Oh god.”

He laughs while I want to crawl into a hole and never come out. “It’s fine!” He laughs again. “Isabella, it’s fine.”

Isabella . . . not Izzy. Why isn’t he calling me Izzy anymore? We’re quiet for a few moments, and Dave finishes his cigarette as the waitress brings our food. I reach for the ketchup bottle, my fingers brushing his as we go for it at the same time, and there’s an awkward chuckle from us both.

“Dave?”

“Hmm?”

I need to know. “Can I ask—whywereyou such a jerk yesterday?”

He takes a bite of his scrambled egg–covered toast and looks at me before swallowing. “Can I be honest with you?”

I blink. Honesty is good, right? So why is my stomach in knots? “Yeah, of course.”

Dave sighs and puts his cutlery down on the table. “Look, I think it’s obvious by now that I’m very attracted to you.”

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