Page 1 of Forest Proximity
Chapter 1
Stevie
Ithink I’m on a date, and my date is wearing khaki slacks with ironed pleats.
There’s nothing inherently wrong with khaki slacks, especially if the person wearing them is helping me file my taxes. In fact, they’re a green flag in the world of accounting. But we’re at a table for two on the patio of a swanky restaurant, sharing an appetizer. The fried squares of ravioli match Desmond’s starched pants perfectly, and I can’t seem to peel my eyes away.
“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” Desmond misreads my wandering gaze, tossing a whole ravioli in his mouth with his fingers. “Oooh!” He opens his mouth into a wideO, fanning his hand in front of it frantically. “Hah-hah-hah!” He blows around the molten ravioli, letting the night air cool the partially chewed food on his tongue. “Das haht,” he says, his eyes wide with surprise.
“Hot?” I ask, sipping my ice water to hide my grin. Shouldn't a fireman be accustomed to some heat?
Desmond nods, grimacing.
The server warned us. The ravioli was still sizzling when she placed the platter on the table, for heaven’s sake. And now that I’m aware that Desmond thinks this is a date, I’m looking at myfriend through a dating lens. As is my tradition, I form my list of reasons there won’t be a second date:
Pleated khaki slacks.
Doesn’t listen.
Opens his mouth when it’s full of partially chewed food.
Can’t chew hot ravioli like a man.
Do I want to spend the rest of my life wishing my husband wore different pants and reminding him to wait for food to cool before he eats it? No. Plus, Desmond and I have known each other for years, and we barely get along. It’s like being on a date with one of my brothers, except none of them would eat like that.
Adjusting the straps of my dress for the hundredth time, I search the dusky woods out the window behind my accidental date. I don’twant to be in this stuffy restaurant, wearing an uncomfortable dressand watching Desmond “hashafashahahhh” a hot ravioli in his mouth.
It’s summer. I want to be wandering through those trees. Plus, the lupines are blooming. The purple wildflowers don’t last long, and I’m missing them. My fear of missing out makes me tap my toe under the table.
Desmond finally—finally—swallows, then takes a long sip of ice water through his straw. He blots his mouth with his black napkin. “I’m glad you agreed to this, Stevie.”
There’s another thing for my mental list: daintily drinking from a straw. Can I watch him do that for the rest of my life? Absolutely not.
“Yeahhhh.” I don’t know what else to say. I didn’t know what I was agreeing to.
“When you said yes, I thought, ‘Finally!’ I wondered how long it would take you to see that there’s something here.” He gestures between us with a smirk.
“Uh . . .” I don’t know what he sees between us, but I need to stall while I figure out what to say.
It isn’t that I dislike Desmond. He’s fun to hang out withas a friend. When he planned this outing, I agreed because I wanted to try this restaurant, and the rest of our friends are busy this weekend. I didn’t foresee the starched khakis.
Desmond never dresses like this. He’s a jeans and T-shirt guy. Of course, I’ve never been on a date with him. Maybe this is Date Desmond. And he’s sitting there, waiting for me to acknowledge that this was a good idea. What do I say? I’m panicking now.
Without thinking, I stab my fork into a ravioli, pulling it into my mouth with my teeth and chewing once. Searing lava coats my tongue.
“Hahashafashahahhh!” I breathe out around the scorching food, holding my mouth open and fanning myself. I give up, swallowing the thing mostly whole and gulping ice water through my straw. The ravioli scratches and burns the whole way down.
While I put out the fire, Desmond chuckles. “You’re cute when you’re nervous.”
“I’m not nervous, Des.” I take a few more swallows of cold water. “I didn’t realize you thought this was a date until you showed up looking like that,” I say, fluttering my hands in the general direction of the khakis. My voice is hoarse from the killer pasta. I press my hand to my sternum, like that will help. That little nubbin of gums in between my top front teeth is already swollen and humongous. I hate when that happens. And nothing's left of my tongue. I take another sip of ice water, holding it in my mouth.
He frowns. “I said, ‘Hey, Stevie, can I take you out to that new Italian place tonight—”
I hold up my palms. “We always go out to eat as friends.” He needs to give me more than that.
“You dressed up.” Deep lines form on his forehead.
I gulp. “It’s a nice restaurant.” I didn’t swallow fast enough, and I choke a little. “And it’s Friday night. I wanted to look nice.”
