Chapter Thirteen
Breaking Point
“So, tell me about yourself.”
I look at Jeremy, sitting across from me and smiling encouragingly, then let my eyes move over the rest of the restaurant. I wonder if the owners designed it to be a cliché romantic atmosphere. The candlelight, the violin music, and even the heart-shaped salt-and-pepper shakers scream, “I’m trying to get laid.” Or, at the very least, “I’m trying to impress a girl I barely know.”
I shrug in answer to his question and give him a small smile.
“There’s not much to tell. I grew up in Catonsville—about ten minutes from the city. I’m really close to my father. I’ve got great friends. I guess that’s about it.”
“What about your mom?”
I run my hands over the linen napkin in my lap.
“She left when I was a baby. I never knew her.”
Jeremy swallows hard, then clears his throat.
“Oh. I’m so sorry. I didn’t—”
I hold up a hand, shaking my head. “Don’t worry about it. Ancient history.”
His smile looks kind of wobbly now. Uncertain. Not at all like the confident smirk of another guy I know. I force that thought out of my head.
“How about you?” I ask, reaching for my wine. “What’s your story?”
Jeremy seems far more comfortable talking about himself, and he launches into a substantial life history. I nod politely when he tells me about his four sisters and his parents’ perfect marriage, about how he went to the University of Delaware to follow in his father’s footsteps and become a high school teacher.
“Of course, he majored in history, not science,” he says, grinning broadly. “But he forgives me for my ‘mistaken choice in subject matter,’ as he calls it.”
“It sounds like you have a wonderful family. I’m surprised you’d move so far away from them.”
He leans back in his chair, his lips pursed. I take the opportunity to examine his face. His cheeks are absent of scruff. He really is clean cut. A proverbial good boy.
The opposite of everything I’ve been drawn to lately.
“I guess I just wanted to strike out on my own,” Jeremy finally says. “Delaware isn’t all that far from Baltimore, anyway.”
He reaches for his wine and takes a sip.
“How about you?” he asks. “Why’d you stay so close to home?”
I open my mouth, prepared to say something about Dad, then snap it shut. For whatever reason, I just can’t go there. Not on a first date.
Instead, I say, “I got a scholarship. It was cheaper to stay.”
It’s not a lie, and it seems to satisfy him. Moments later, our food arrives and I dig into my pasta arrabbiata.
“I hate when women don’t eat on dates,” he says approvingly. “I think it’s important to have a healthy appetite.”
I raise a brow.
“When it comes to Italian food, you can bet I can put my fair share away.”
We eat, punctuating the meal with conversation about school, about where I see myself in five years, about what I want to do after I get my graduate degree. When the bill comes, he doesn’t even let me look at it before he slips a credit card into the waiter’s hand.
But him paying for the bill doesn’t make it feel like a date. I hate to admit it, but the whole experience feels more like a job interview.
And I keep comparing him to someone else.
Someone who is nothing like him.
Someone I have absolutely no business thinking about.
“Do you want to get coffee?” he asks as we stand to go. I peer out the window, noticing the dark clouds gathering in the sky, then shake my head.
“Nah, I think we might need to take a rain check on that—literally.”
He follows my gaze.
“Aw, come on—it’s not too bad. Hey, there’s a band performance at Franklin tonight. You want to swing by? I can show you the bullet holes in the auditorium door.”
I blink at him, then shake my head slowly.
“Uh . . . no. I think I’d rather just head home. Maybe another time.”
“Oh. Okay, sure.”
I can sense the disappointment in his voice, but he smiles at me as we head out the restaurant’s front door. The wind has picked up since we were last outside and I pull my jacket a little tighter. Jeremy notices and slings an arm around my shoulders, pulling me in closer. My breath stutters a bit and I glance over at him. He isn’t looking at me, but his cheeks are red. I wonder if he’s been waiting for this opportunity.
When we pull up to my apartment complex, the sky has turned from grumbly to downright wrathful, and I glance up warily through the windshield.
“You better hurry home,” I say, “so you don’t get stuck in this.”
He nods and licks his lips nervously. Quickly, I swoop in and press a kiss against his cheek before he can direct his mouth to mine.
“Thank you for dinner,” I say, somehow simultaneously pulling back from him and opening my door. Jeremy looks a little dazed, but he smiles and reaches for my hand, then gives it an awkward little shake.
“I’ll see you at school.” I say it firmly, making it clear this will be our last date.
I don’t think he gets the hint.
“I’ll call you later,” he insists.
I don’t say anything to that. Instead, I just wave as he pulls away from the curb, then take one last look at the angry sky before hurrying up the stairs to my apartment.
I’m home all of two minutes when the lights flicker in my bedroom, then the power goes out. I look up at the ceiling just as a sharp crack of thunder echoes through the apartment.
Shit.
I take a deep breath and try to relax. I’ve been in plenty of storms before. Then there’s a flash of lightning, followed by an almost deafening roll of thunder. I slip off my heels and dress, digging a pair of pajama pants out of my bottom drawer and finding a faded green T-shirt balled up beneath them. If I’m going to be stuck in here, I can at least be comfortable. Wrinkled, but comfortable.
I’m trying to decide between hiding out in the bathroom—no windows—or camping out in my bed under the blankets, when I hear a loud, staccato banging. At first, I think it’s just the thunder—or reverberation of thunder—as it echoes along the exterior courtyard. But then it comes again—louder and sharper this time. Along with a voice yelling my name.
I know that voice.
And the face, despite being soaking wet with rain, is just as familiar when I fling the door open.
You know, most people look like a drowned rat when they get caught in a rainstorm. Smith, on the other hand, looks like he’s ready for a photo shoot. His T-shirt—dark blue, or at least dark blue when wet—is plastered to his chest and torso, defining every inch and ridge of muscle. His hair is glued to his scalp, making me realize how much it’s grown in the six weeks I’ve known him. He’s starting to look a little less like a soldier and a little more like a student.
My stomach takes a swan dive.
He can’t be here right now. The barrier between us has become far too tenuous. Far too close to snapping. I cross my arms over my chest, suddenly aware that I’m braless under my T-shirt.
“I thought you were going to stay as far away from me as possible.”
He sort of smirks. “I changed my mind.”
I lift a brow. “I’d ask how you know where I live, but I guess that would be a stupid question.”
Smith doesn’t say anything to that—just scrubs a hand over his damp hair.
“I have to talk to you.”
I lean my hip against the open door, now pressed between me and the wall, and shiver. The polite thing to do would be to invite him in. The smart thing to do would be to send him away.
“Why?” I finally ask.