Page 32 of Summer Romance

Ethan’s looking at me like he’s waiting for me to saymore. He has a nice way of knowing when to dig and when to give a little space. I wonder again what’s so wrong with him that his girlfriend broke up with him. Now that I’ve seen two square inches of his stomach, it makes less sense than ever. “So why’d your girlfriend break up with you?” I ask.

He shrugs. “The usual reason.”

“Your fashion sense?”

He smiles, and I love that we have a joke. “I need to grow up.”

“Because of the skateboarding?” I ask. This blonde doesn’t know anything about what’s sexy. “There must be more.”

“I didn’t prioritize the relationship.”

I look at him for a minute, registering his steady gaze and the gift of his undivided attention. He seems like a person who takes care of things that matter to him: his dog, his car, his parents’ belongings. I wonder what mattered to him more than his relationship with this annoying woman.

My phone beeps, and it’s Pete: Great game, Iris scored two. I’m going to take them for dinner and then to sleep at my place. Text you in the morning.

I’m delighted that they had a great game and that I don’t have to make dinner. “Pete’s keeping them overnight,” I say. I lift my eyes to his and see all the possibilities associated with what I’ve just said dance across his face.

“Oh,” he says, finally, and then goes inside.

I am free for the entire night. I am a single woman, free for the night. I’m glad he’s left me alone because my breathing has gone uneven, and I need to get up and pace a little.I circle the pool once while Iris texts a full play-by-play of the game.

Ethan comes back out with a plate of sliced tomatoes, fresh mozzarella, and sliced salami. Under his arm is a baguette. “Look, a picnic,” he says. He walks over to the outdoor kitchen and pulls two wineglasses from the cupboard. He opens the wine refrigerator, chooses a white, and carefully opens the bottle.

He sits down and pours us each a glass. My senses are on high alert. I can actually feel my heart beating in my chest. My mind is scanning the situation for clues as to what’s coming next. Beer, my mind tells me, is for friends hanging out. Wine is a date.

I need to get a grip. There is no reason for me to feel afraid of the way I want to run the tips of my fingers along the inside of his forearm. I have not been attracted to a man in so long that I am becoming obsessed with this guy’s forearms. I laugh a little at that. I must be losing my mind.

“What?” He sits down and pours us each a glass of wine and I rip off a piece of the baguette.

“This is just so lovely.”

“Thank you,” he says. “Why would that be funny?”

I rip off another piece of the baguette and make a little sandwich out of the mozzarella and salami. He’s watching me. He’s assumed what I now know is his you-have-my-full-attention pose. Leaning forward, golden forearms resting on thighs. It feels like an invitation to spill my guts.

“It’s just that you’re this man with wine and the lovely food, and then you’re also Scooter who stole the ice cream sandwiches.”

“It was a dare. People really need to let that go. I was fourteen, and I did my time.”

I smile and look down at my wine. “You really helped me yesterday,” I say. “And it’s been a long time since I’ve felt supported like that, like someone was in my corner.”

“I’m glad I got to be there, but you could have totally handled that on your own.”

There’s no way. “I’m not so sure,” I say, and now wish that I hadn’t steered the conversation back in this direction. I want him to lean forward again so that I can study his eyelashes, darker than his hair.

“Of course you could,” he says. “You’re the architect of your own experience.”

I narrow my eyes at him. “That was in my high school graduation speech. ‘I am the architect of my own experience.’ ” Of course he would have been at Frannie’s and my graduation. “I can’t believe you remember that.” I can feel all of those nerves again and the way my mom fixed my cap and hugged me before I lined up with my classmates. I was so nervous, and she told me I was going to knock ’em dead.

“It really resonated with me. I was a sophomore and was hanging out with total screwups because I didn’t know what else to do. And my parents had pretty low expectations of me after the basement fire and, of course, my failure as a football star. Those words sort of made me realize I didn’t have to keep being who everyone thought I was forever.”

“Wow,” I say. I try to remember what sort of experience I was hoping to create when I wrote that speech.

“It’s funny how you’re meeting me for the first time, and I’ve known you forever,” he says. He leans forwardagain, so I do too. He’s very close, and I can feel that crackle between us, like the air is suddenly thick. One thing I know for sure—I am no longer numb. I can feel his eyes on mine. I can feel the space between our mouths. The longer we linger here, the more intense it gets, and I find myself moving by half millimeters toward him and then back again, just to feel the crackle against my lips.

“You know,” he says, and I can almost feel his mouth as it moves. “I have a thing where I won’t kiss a woman who refuses to call me by my real name.”

He’s looking me right in the eye, waiting. His eyes are searching mine for an answer, and I’m sure he sees it there. I have wanted to kiss him since the moment my dog peed on him. He smiles at me the tiniest bit, and I smile back. “Ethan,” I say.

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