Page 7 of Love Is an Art
I hand Tessa a menu as she takes a seat at the small, round table across from me in the outdoor section. We’re the only couple out here. Most people chose to sit inside, but the night air is warm, and I like sitting outside. This up-and-coming neighborhood is good for people-watching. A light, wooden trough with fake, green plants shields us from passersby on the sidewalk.
Ben looked happy when I told him we were going next door for dinner. And the thing is, I feel good about this. I want to be here with her. She has this certain assurance. She’d have to … to wear that shirt to an art opening.
We order hamburgers, two glasses of beer, and a plate of fries to share. The waiter comes back with our two beers immediately.
“Proost,” Tessa says. We clink glasses.
“You know Dutch?” I ask.
“My roommate is half Dutch, so that’s how we toast.Youknow Dutch?”
“I’m of Dutch descent,” I say.
“I’m a mutt. I’m a mix of Polish, German, Irish, and English.”
“I’ve always been partial to mutts. I adopted my dog from the ASPCA. She’s a sweetheart.” I sip my beer.
She wrinkles up her face. “I don’t think people usually describe me as a sweetheart.”
“No?” I raise an eyebrow. “How do people usually describe you?”
She looks away. “Loyal, a good friend, tenacious, hard-working, competitive. A bit too willing to take risks. Not risk-averse enough. How would your friends describe you?”
“Similar. But maybe too risk-averse. Now.”Since Paisley cheated on me.
“Now?”
I shrug and look away. “I’m trying to transfer to a different department at work. I don’t want to take any risks that might mess that up.”
She raises her glass. “Yes. That’s exactly the definition of risk-averse. Whereas I sometimes take risks that I probably shouldn't.”
“Why? For the thrill?”Is she another Paisley? Unable to commit because of a fear of missing out on other choices?
She frowns.
Yeah.My tone was probably a bit bitter, derisive.
“No," she says. "The reward. I’m betting on myself. In my own calculus, I still think that the risk is worth the reward.”
“Have you ever been wrong about the risk?”
She smiles cheekily. “Not recently.”
Our waiter serves us our burgers and a plateful of fries. She takes a bite of her burger. The burgers are good with slightly toasted whole wheat rolls. She hums as she eats the fries. I almost feel bad taking any.
“That’s impressive.” I raise my beer to her. I think back to what she said earlier. “But loyal, a good friend … Why not a sweetheart? Because you’re competitive and take risks?”
“Sometimes those risks skirt the line of what could be considered the sweet thing to do. You should definitely not consider me a sweetheart.”
“Are you warning me?”
“I am.”
“Isn’t that kind of a sweet thing to do?”
She laughs and shakes her head, framing her face in her hands. “You’re the sweetheart here. Because I’m warning you, and you still want to believe I’m sweet.”
“I’m fine with being a sweetheart. I have no problem with that characterization. The question is … why do you?” I lean forward, closer to her, across the table.
