Muslim is already sitting at the table, a drink next to his hand, the glass sweating. I’m glad I’m not the only one sweating. Wait, Kit. How long has it been since I’ve thought about Kit? When he sees me, he stands up. He’s not a city boy. That’s something my dad does, and he does it because his dad made him.
“Seems you’re never without one,” I say, slinging my purse over the back of my chair. He waits for me to sit down, and then takes his own seat.
“Says the girl who drinks whiskey at three o’clock on a weekday, while picking up sociopathic men.”
What can I even say to that?
I lick my lips and order a nice, feminine glass of wine to go with my mirth.
Muslim watches everything I do with interest. When I laugh and joke around with our server, he watches us with a small smile, his eyes traveling from her to me. When I drop a butterball on my lap, and then five minutes later almost knock my glass of wine over, he laughs and shakes his head. If he hadn’t admitted all of those things about himself earlier, I’d think he was enamored with me. It’s all part of his ruse. I respect that—in the kind of way you respect a rattlesnake. It has me on edge, biting the inside of my cheeks. I’m waiting for him to strike, poison me. But he’s surprisingly normal, natural, charismatic. Oh my God, he’s so good at this.
“I have to tell you something,” he says, when our meals arrive. “I came tonight because I wanted to have dinner with you. There’s not a thing I can show you about yourself, or teach you, that you don’t already know.”
I laugh. I’m on my third glass of wine, and everything feels funny.
“I’m a mess,” I say.
“A lovely mess.”
“What does that mean?” I eye him over my plate, wanting and not wanting. He makes me feel like someone else. Someone dangerous and sexy.
“You’re just raw, and yourself, and beautiful. You don’t need anything from anyone, unless it’s the kind of love that chooses you first, always.”
“Chooses me over who? His baby? His fiancée?” I shake my head dismissively. “He can’t do that. I need to convince him.”
Muslim reaches across the table and touches the top of my hand as I reach for my wine glass. The spot starts to tingle right away.
“You shouldn’t have to convince anyone to choose you. There is no real choice in love.”
He settles back in his seat, and I stay frozen, the stem of the glass still between my fingertips.
“It shouldn’t just be people he chooses you over. But himself as well.”
“So maybe you should be coaching me on how to move on and not give a fuck,” I say finally. “Because that’s not going to happen.”
“Have you ever tried to walk away from something you love?” he asks me.
“Kit Isley is the first thing I’ve truly loved,” I tell him. “I haven’t walked away yet.”
“There is no walking away.” He dips the bread they brought us into the oil they brought us. When he touches his mouth with it, it leaves a glistening mark on his lips. Something to kiss away. God! What is wrong with me? It’s like I’m in heat.
“Trying to walk away from something you love is like trying to drown yourself. You want to, but it’s unnatural to not crave air. Your body demands it; your mind says you need it. Eventually you break to the surface, gasping and unable to deny yourself that basic need of air. Of love. Of fierce desire.”
I am so enraptured I barely notice my water being filled in light of my soul being filled. Muslim is giving me answers.
“How many women have you slept with?” I ask.
It’s not okay to ask strangers personal questions. My mother taught me this. Do not ask them their age, or their weight, or how many people they’ve slept with. My mother never told me that, but I can imagine it’s high up on the no-no list.
“I wouldn’t be able to tell you,” he says. “How many have you slept with?”
I think about Roger in high school. Sweet, pimply-faced Roger. I liked him for five minutes before we graduated. Hey, he got my virginity.
“Two,” I tell him. “You shouldn’t ask people such personal questions, you know?”
“I know.”
He pushes his glass around with his fingertips. Furtive, little pushes like he just needs something to do with his hands. His incisors, I notice, are longer than the rest of his teeth. When he’s thinking, he rubs the tip of his tongue across their points.
“You remind me of a vampire,” I say. “In more than one way.”
Muslim laughs for the first time. It’s a quiet laugh. It reaches his eyes more than it reaches my ears.
“I like you,” he says.
“I can tell.”
“Do you like me?”
“I don’t know.”
I could be mistaken, but this seems to make him happier.
“Maybe I do like you,” I say. “I wouldn’t really know because I’m not sure if you’re showing me who you really are.”
“My, my, my Helena Conway. You certainly say whatever you’re thinking.”
“If only we could both be so lucky,” I shoot back. Muslim laughs, looks away, laughs some more. When he turns back to me, he’s licking his lips.
“Want to get out of here, Helena?”
I have a moment of hesitation before I nod.
“How are you going to do this?” Greer asks. She has a notepad and a stack of purple permanent markers. Her hand is poised over the paper as she waits. I glance at her as I wash dishes. The minute I told her my thoughts on telling Kit how I felt, she was on board.
“I sort of thought honesty was the best approach.”
Greer writes HONESTY on her notepad, and then looks up at me expectantly.
“I don’t have a plan.”
She tears out the page and hands it to me. “Don’t deviate from the plan,” she says, patting me on the head. After that, she retreats to her bedroom. I still haven’t seen her damn bedroom. I’m suddenly upset about this. What is she hiding in there anyway? I march over to her door and knock. Probably harder than I should. When she answers, she’s wearing a towel like she was just about to get in the shower.
“Sorry,” I say, embarrassed. “I … just … I—”
Greer stands aside, and I reluctantly look into her bedroom.