Page 57 of Devotion
First, a farmers market on Saturday. Christopher carried my bags without being asked, putting considerable effort into this performance. I was examining a basket of heirloom tomatoes when I looked up and found him three stalls away, holding a peach to his nose with his eyes closed, inhaling like he was selecting a vintage wine.
I coughed to swallow a laugh.
He turned. “What?”
“You’re smelling the peach.”
“That’s how you tell if it’s ripe.”
“You look like you’re auditioning for a fruit commercial.”
He bought three bags of peaches, out of what I was fairly certain was spite.
A woman selling jams recognized us and nearly dropped an entire tray of samples. “Oh my God, you’re Christopher Vale!”
He signed an autograph on a bag of organic cashews because it was the only surface available. The woman looked at me, then at him, then back at me, and said, “You’re so lucky.”
I replied, “You have no idea,” and meant it in about four different ways, none of them positive.
Then a coffee shop, where we sat by the window. I was deep in a cookbook, reading about fermentation techniques, when I felt his eyes on me. I looked up. He was holding his newspaper but not reading it. His eyes were on my face with an expression I couldn’t categorize.
“What?” I said.
“You mouth the words when you read.”
“I do not.”
“You do. Your lips move. It’s…” He stopped, picked up his coffee, and took a sip. “It’s noticeable.”
“Were you watching me read?”
“I was reading the newspaper.”
“You were watching me read.”
“The newspaper is boring. You’re more interesting.” He said it casually, eyes back on the paper, like he hadn’t just said something that made my stomach do a full somersault. I went back to my cookbook and reread the same paragraph three times without absorbing a single word.
We left the coffee shop and walked along Brickell, my brain still trying to recover from what he'd said. He stopped at an ice cream cart and ordered two cones without consulting me, then handed me mint chocolate chip.
I stared at it. “How did you know?”
“Know what?”
“That this is my flavor.”
He shrugged. “Lucky guess.”
“Thank you,” I said quietly.
We walked along the waterfront eating ice cream in silence that didn’t feel hostile for the first time since the contract started. His arm brushed mine twice. I didn’t move away.
Our next date was at the gallery.
Trisha arranged it. A photographer from a major entertainment outlet was positioned near the entrance.Christopher and I arrived, his hand on my waist, my smile in place, the routine already becoming muscle memory.
As we paused near the entrance for the photo, Christopher turned to me. His hand came up to my jaw. His thumb rested against my cheek. He leaned in close enough that I could feel his breath on my lips.
“I’m going to kiss you,” he said.
