Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 106935 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 535(@200wpm)___ 428(@250wpm)___ 356(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 106935 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 535(@200wpm)___ 428(@250wpm)___ 356(@300wpm)
“And you like them too,” he counters, never missing a beat.
I do have an affection for those tunes. “I grew up listening to them,” I say, inviting him in more.
He arches an eyebrow. “Parents loved them?”
I smile at the sweet memories. “They did. Used to dance to them in the kitchen.”
“Some songs are just good.”
I’m quiet for a moment, content to zoom in on the lyrics about an airline ticket to romantic places, then feeling the possibilities of them, like a little zing. “Maybe I could even dance to it.”
I smile. Nick smiles back.
“Bet you’d enjoy dancing to Ella with me,” he says.
I picture that. It’s a good image. “Are you a secret ballroom dancer and you never told me?”
“Maybe.”
“Shut up. Are you really?”
He laughs, then shakes his head. “No, but my mom made me take dancing lessons at Johnny Angel’s School of Dance when I graduated from college. That was her graduation gift. She was convinced I was going to need to foxtrot or waltz with Rose at our wedding.”
Funny, how I felt a flare of jealousy over Rose the other week. Now, I understand his story, so I feel curiosity rather than envy. “And did you?”
“Nope. After all that, we had a small civil ceremony. Just family. We didn’t make a thing of it at all.”
“Was your mom devastated that you didn’t get to foxtrot?”
“I think so, but she’s a stoic woman so she didn’t let on much. Just gave a harrumph and said Let me see if I can get a refund for the rest of the lessons.”
“And did she?”
He holds up a finger. “One lesson. She snagged a refund on one lesson since I never got to the tango.”
“She got the tango refund,” I say, admiring her already from a distance. “But were you even going to tango at your wedding?”
“No, but she’s all about preparation. Covering your bases. She didn’t want to take a chance.”
“What’s your mom like? Besides, well, determined.”
“That describes her well. She’s no-nonsense. Direct. Very mom-like too. She worries about flu shots and sunscreen and whether I packed enough underwear for a trip.”
I burst into laughter, covering my mouth. When the laughter subsides, I say, “Still? She still worries about your underwear?”
He nods, grinning. “She sure does. And yours? What’s she like?”
That’s a loaded question. It’s one I’ve covered in therapy ceaselessly. But now’s not the time to focus on the push and pull between us. I home in on the good. “She’s always been driven and dedicated in everything she does. She works long hours, and is passionate about her work, and that probably rubbed off on me.”
“I’d say so. You’re intense and driven,” he says, already knowing me well. Then, like he’s seizing the chance of this conversation, he asks, “What drove you to start the videos?”
Instantly, I feel seen, and I’m not even sure why.
Maybe because he asked without an agenda? That must be it—his genuine interest in knowing me rather than the headlines. Nick never looked me up. He kept to his word. He wants to hear about me from me.
That impulse I felt to share a week ago awakens again. But it’s not quite as feral now since I know where it’s coming from—it’s coming from my heart. I want to be close to Nick, even though intimacy has always been terrifying. But it’s not scary with him. It’s comforting. It’s warm and hopeful.
With a gulp, I open the door. “I started doing the makeup videos after my dad’s death. I also started wearing makeup after his death. A lot of it,” I say, finally going there, to the place that marks my before and after.
With a somber nod, he says, “That makes sense.”
“And I did come to love it. It’s fun, it’s artistic—it’s like putting on a costume. But I think it was a mask at first. A necessary one.”
“One you needed to make it through the day?” he asks, getting it. Getting me. Showing me yet another reason why I want to be close to him. His kind and patient acceptance. His understanding.
“Yes, I needed it. Desperately. Like my mom needed Beautique. She poured herself into the company after he was killed,” I say, then almost apologetically I add, “She was crazy for him. His death was hard for her.”
“Of course it was,” he says, then takes my hand gently, encouraging me to say more if I want to. Or to stop. I can already read his touches. He’s saying without words that he’ll listen for as long as I want to talk.
Briefly I look away, staring at the other tables at Hugo’s, full of couples, families, friends, colleagues. Are they talking about loss? Are they digging into their wounds? No, they’re probably discussing stocks and social media.
I turn back to Nick, wanting to give him an out. “We don’t have to talk about it.”