Page 40 of New Girl in the City
“Sure.” I took a swig from my glass and lowered it to my lap, fingers tight around it. I wasn’t sure what to do with my hands because I wanted to reach for him, but I knew he wouldn’t let me. Not before I had the water down. So I took another sip and then another until I had downed the glass. When I was done I set it on the coffee table in front of us with a satisfied thud.
“Done,” I said, turning in my seat on the sofa to face him. “Now what?”
“I honestly don’t know. Thought it’d take you longer to drink that.”
I shrugged. “You said you wouldn’t kiss me until I was done with it.”
“That’s not exactly what I said, but okay.”
“Close enough,” I said. “But you didn’t answer my question. What now?”
“Now we talk about the stupid thing we’re gonna do.”
“Oh thank god. I thought I was going to have to drink another glass of water before that was on the table.”
At that Liam’s eyes shot to my glass and I cursed at myself. The man was totally gonna—
“That’s not a bad idea,” he said, and I groaned. “I’ll be right back.”
“Wait, no!” I tried to swipe for the glass, but Liam was already sliding off the couch and snagging the glass to refill it in the kitchen. I sighed, crossing my arms and glaring at the floor. It wasn’t that I didn’t want the water, it was that what I really wanted to do—-the conversation about “the stupid thing”— was being held off yet again in favor of me swilling it. It really put a cramp in a woman’s plans.
Liam returned and we commenced the same song and dance, with him holding out the glass to me, me taking it with a frown and drinking the water down until I slammed it down on the coffee table.
“I’m done. No more dang water,” I told him.
“For now.”
“Yeah yeah, let’s get into the stupid thing,” I urged.
Liam blew out a sigh and brought both of his hands together, steepling them in front of him. “I’m younger than you,” he said.
I blinked at him, wondering if I’d been drinking vodka instead of water because, what?
“I don’t follow,” I finally said when he didn’t go on. “So?”
He turned his head slightly, looking at me with surprise on his face. “What do you mean so?”
I raised my hands and made a ‘what gesture’ because what the hell, once again. “I mean so? What’s not to get?”
“I’m younger than you,” he repeated, but this time slower. “And it’s not just by a year or two,” he added, as if that made a difference. Which. to me, it didn’t. Again my hands made the same gesture and he sighed at me.
“So? You ever hear age is just a number? Besides, you don’t even know how old I am,” I said, since it was true. The topic had never come up in the week we had known each other. It’s not like it was something I really thought about when meeting someone new. How did you even work that in?‘Hi, I’m thirty-six. Nice to meet you?’
“No, but Walt did. Made sure I knew all about you, wanted us to...fit,” he said, speaking slowly as if he were choosing his next words carefully before he said, “I’m eight years younger than you.”
“Okay,” I said and lowered my hands. “That’s nice?” I tried, when he kept looking at me with a mixture of disbelief, and maybe a little amusement. “I mean, is something funny?” I asked when he did outright laugh.
“No,” he said, still laughing. That didn’t convince a woman, so I told him so.
“Then why are you laughing?”
“Because I—“ he broke off and looked away from me and down at his shoes. The sun was setting now, coming in through the windows in slants of golden and red hues, and the effect was breathtaking. Liam was just so beautiful like this. The starkness of his profile, the way his suit was outlined, making it look oh so severe and dark against the warm hues of the sun, and in my living room which was designed for optimum coziness. There was a fluffy pink blanket to his right and a cream floor poof meant for resting your feet on in front of him. He reached out, running a hand over the soft material and then sighed, tattooed hands splayed out across the creamy plush. All I could think of was what his inked hands would look like on my skin. I swallowed hard, forcing my attention back to our conversation.
Now was not the time to let little Melinda do the thinking, as much as she wanted to. I needed to focus on the here and now, which meant discussing our age?
“Because you what?” I prompted.
“Because I’m eight years younger than you,” he said again.
