“Fits,” he notes, titling his head a little to the side.
“I disagree, but anyway, let’s get this little visit over with, shall we?” I smooth my dinner napkin across my legs and flick my spoon in the air in a rolling “hurry up” gesture. I’m flustered and ready to retreat to my motel room. He disarms me. He unnerves me. He enraptures me with everything he says and does. I peek up at him in time to see something like worry fills his eyes, making me feel like hugging him. The tension between us is agonizingly evident.
“Okay. What exactly were you wanting to come from us meeting—talking?”
“I…well, it’s kind of a long story.” I struggle to articulate exactly why I’ve ended up on this island, eating dinner with this man. My mind clouds when I’m so close to him. My judgment seems skewed and it leaves me grappling at any organized thinking. He does something to my body and mind.
“I’m retired,” he says casually. “I have plenty of time to waste.”
“Okay. Um…” I don’t really know where to begin, in part because none of this crap was my idea, nor do I have any expectations. I just agreed for the sake of keeping my family, namely my mom, off my back. I never expected this. I never expected to feel so drawn to him. I never expected Zander. “I was coerced. Basically.” I shrug and dig into the steaming bowl of gumbo in front of me, doing my best to feign nonchalance.
“Explain?”
“My family doesn’t think I’m grieving quick enough, or well enough, or whatever enough, so they thought if I met a few of the people who benefitted from Jake’s death, I’d magically feel better about all of it.” Even saying it aloud makes me roll my eyes and want to kick something. The prospect of walking away from this journey having found some measure of solace or peace just sounds impossible and quite frankly, preposterous. Especially now. Especially after meeting Zander.
“Has it?”
“No. Not really.” It’s not the entire truth, though. Being near Zander and the heart he now calls his own stops me in my tracks. It doesn’t heal me, per se, but it does stop me. I stop drowning in loss and just kind of float in it instead. It’s not much, but it is something.
“I see.” Zander helps himself to another forkful of fish but his eyes don’t leave mine for more than a second at a time. He’s focused on me. He’s studying me. Hell, he’s probably judging me too.
“What’s the scar from?” I point to his cheek, hoping he’ll have some story worth listening to. Of course, at this point, anything is better than me having to explain or talk about anything related to life back in Atlanta.
“That’s from the only fight I ever lost. Sucker punch,” he explains. His full, pink, lips seal around a cocktail shrimp and he plucks it from the shell with ease. His mouth in action is beguiling. My eyes seem to focus on his mouth and it’s so difficult to tear them away.
Jesus, I hate him right now.
Zander makes the act of eating look like a visual display of male perfection and all but guaranteed sexual prowess. I imagine he’s sinfully exquisite in bed.
Stop, Sadie!
“My turn,” he declares after polishing off the last shrimp on his plate. “What do you do for a living?”
I can’t help but laugh condescendingly at my own expense. I don’t do anything. I used to want to see my sculptures in every significant building across the nation. I used to imagine my name on little bronze plaques below my work in places where only the best of the best display their masterpieces. None of that has come to fruition. I don’t expect that it ever will. “I’m the starving artist type.”
“I can see that, Slim.”
“I’m not that skinny,” I reiterate.
“Skinny is skinny and you, Slim, are indeed skinny. Here, have a roll,” Zander jokes, playfully sliding a dinner roll across the table to me. He’s taunting me, but it doesn’t feel like something I should be pissed about. He’s just trying to lighten the mood, no doubt.
“Wait, how many calories is this?” I jibe and it kind of feels good. I used to be lighthearted and fairly decent company. It seems like ages ago, but I do remember it. I chide myself inwardly for not being more fun to be around.
“Eat,” he commands and I have no qualms with that.
I split open the dinner roll and slather it with a generous amount of softened butter then take a massive bite, filling my mouth so that my cheeks are puffed out. Zander’s chest shakes as a low chuckle rumbles through him.
“My turn,” I muffle around a mouth full of carbohydrates. I chew fast and swallow down the heap of bread. “You said that scar is from a fight. You scrap often, Scrappy?”