Page 32 of The Write Place

The waiter indicates another table across the room. “Courtesy of them,” he explains. I look to see one of my students from a few years ago and her family waving at us. I wave back. Daniel twists in his seat to see who it is and then turns back to me, frowning slightly. I chuckle.

“Friends of yours?” he asks.

“A former student,” I reply as the waiter fills our glasses and leaves the bottle of wine at the table. Daniel takes a sip of wine and regards me over the top of the glass. His gray-blue eyes sparkle in the candlelight.

“It’s an interesting experience not being the most famous one in the room,” he says playfully.

“Jealous?” I counter.

“Not in the least,” he says seriously, and I know he means it. “Is this weird for you?”

I shake my head, taking a sip of wine. It’s absolutely delicious, and I make a mental note to drink slowly. “Not really. It’s kind of inevitable when you live where you teach. Sometimes they acknowledge you,” I wave at the wine, “but most times they don’t want to talk for long and are happy to let you live your life.”

“I wouldn’t have wanted to talk to any of my teachers for any length of time if I saw them in public.” He opens his menu. “Though most of my teachers were stodgy, prep-school teachers who cared so little about me, they probably wouldn’t have recognized me outside of class, anyway.”

I tilt my head to the side, lowering my eyebrows slightly. “You were relatively famous, though, right?”

“Not until my senior year. And even then, most of my classmates were equally famous. Children of politicians and actors and all that.”

“You really had no idea what public school was like before this, did you?” I ask. He takes a sip of wine and shakes his head, placing his glass back on the table.

“I really, really didn’t. Most of what I heard through the grapevine about public schools was all about fights and drugs and subpar educational experiences.”

I laugh, twisting my wine glass by the stem between my fingers. “Sorry to disappoint you.” When my eyes meet his, he’s looking at me with an intensity I can’t quite pinpoint.

“There is nothing about this experience that has been a disappointment.” He is all seriousness. I feel myself blushing from the intensity of his gaze. Lowering my eyes, I line up my silverware on either side of my still-folded napkin.

After the waiter takes our order, we fall silent again. We’re treading on awkward silence territory, and I start to fidget with my ring under the table. He catches the movement, and I will my hands to be still in my lap.

“Tell me about the ring,” he offers, and I bring my hands up, resting them on the table.

“Not much to tell,” I say. “It was my sister’s.” The gold band flickers with reflected candlelight.

“May I?” he asks, gesturing at my hand. I raise my hand slightly, and he takes it gently, bringing it closer to him so he can see the ring better. He lowers our hands to the table but doesn’t let go. I make no move to take my hand back, either. His expression is one of fake innocence, and I can’t help but grin. I look at the ceiling and back at him.

“I thought you didn’t want this to be a date.” My voice is edged with laughter. He shakes his head.

“You’re the one who said you didn’t want this to be a date,” he corrects, leaning in slightly. Now that he has shifted closer, his inner thigh pushes against mine, and I gasp a little. He smirks. “There it is,” he murmurs, and I can feel my cheeks getting even redder. He runs his thumb casually over the band on my finger. Goosebumps rise up my arm at the touch, and I hope he can’t sense the change in my breathing.

“You said it would make things complicated.”

“I said it might make things complicated,” he amends, “and I didn’t say that bothers me.”

There is no way I am going to survive this evening if we carry on like this, so I change course. “Careful, Evans,” I warn, moving my hand away from his and resting my chin on top of my fingers, batting my eyelashes playfully. “One might think you’re trying to script a happy ending.”

He chuckles, leaning back. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

Our waiter delivers our meals, and we take a few silent bites. I look up at him and take another sip of wine. “I have a confession to make,” I say. He sets his fork down.

“Oh? I’m all ears.”

“I have read your books.” I offer slowly, gauging his reaction as I say it. He takes a long sip of his own wine and then places the glass back on the table too carefully. He doesn’t raise his eyes to me as I say, “All of them. Your stories, too, though you probably already figured that one out.” He starts to refill my glass, then his own.

“Really?” It’s a forced-casual question, and he sounds a little cautious, or like he’s trying to be cool when he desperately wants me to tell him more.

“Really,” is all I say, taking another bite of my pasta.

“And…?” he trails off, waiting for me to finish.