I nod. “Yes, with the chimichurri on the side and—”
“No beans on the antipasto plate,” he finishes before communicating the rest of our order. We both love to try new things, but when the flank steak, truffle pasta, and antipasto variety platter are this good, I can’t bring myself to part from tradition.
“My mouth is already watering,” I confess, biting my lip as our server hurries away. “You’re going to have to fight me for the last mozzarella ball tonight.”
Graham laughs. “You can have it. I had more than my share last time we were here, before Thanksgiving, when you had to leave early so you wouldn’t miss your show. How was that one, by the way? Funny Farm, wasn’t it?”
“Fun Home,” I correct with a roll of my eyes. Graham is pretty well versed in the classic musicals, but I haven’t dragged his appreciation into the current century just yet. “It was incredible. Beautiful. Funny. Heart-wrenching. I ugly-cried so hard at the end I had to go to the ladies’ room as soon as the curtain was up and clean the mascara off my cheeks.”
His brows draw together in concern. “And that was an enjoyable night at the theater for you?”
I nod enthusiastically. “Oh, yes. It was. The story is about a lot of things, but the theme that got to me was how the fear and shame we don’t deal with as we grow up is passed on to our children. A kind of legacy of pain, you know? And how loving and accepting yourself, even when society is telling you that you don’t deserve love, truly is a gift you give the world, not just the person in the mirror. I thought that was beautiful. And important.”
“Wow,” Graham says, sobering. “I didn’t realize musicals got that heavy.”
I shrug. “Sometimes. There were funny parts, too, but I think that was the part I needed to hear.”
Graham’s head tilts quizzically. “Really? But you always seem so . . . you. Unapologetically you, and happy about it.”
I grin. “Well, I am usually. But there are times, like when facing down my twenty-sixth birthday without experiencing things I was certain I would have experienced by this point, that I struggle.”
He nods thoughtfully, holding my gaze as a slow smile curves his lips.
“What?” I laugh again. “Why are you smiling?”
“I’m smiling because I’m glad you decided to stop waiting for experiences to find you and decided to hunt them down for yourself. And I’m glad I’m the one who gets to show you what you’ve been missing.”
My cheeks flush, and my chest feels warmer than it did before. “Me, too.”
His eyes glittering, he adds, “And you are absolutely worthy of love and acceptance. You’re one of my favorite people and, as you know, I have excellent taste.”
My gaze falls to my bread plate as the warm feeling floods through the rest of me, all the way to the tips of my fingertips and toes. And I know what this feeling is. It is familiar to me from bear hugs from my brother, and hour-long girl-talk sessions with Chloe, and long, lazy summers with my grandmother before she passed away, learning how to knit and laughing over old episodes of SNL.
But I’ve never experienced it like this, all tangled up with wanting to press my lips to every inch of the person who’s inspiring the sensation, to thank him for making me feel loved in my body as well as in my soul.
I know Graham doesn’t love me romantically. But his words are the perfect reminder of why this is so right . . . and so dangerous.
Who better to teach me how to make love than someone who loves me already?
But who is it riskier to learn with than someone I know I could fall so hard for, who only loves me as a friend?
“You okay, Butterfly?” he asks, his hand coming to rest on my knee under the table.
I look up, forcing a smile. “Yes, I am.” I take a deep breath and add in a teasing tone, “Though I’m not going to look very sexy in whatever lingerie you have picked out for our lesson later. I can’t resist seconds of the truffle stuff, and I’m not even going to try.”
“You will always be sexy in anything you wear,” he says, giving my knee a gentle squeeze. “But I didn’t pick out any lingerie for tonight. You want to know why?”
I nod.
He runs his hand up my knee. “Because the lesson I want you to learn is that you’re b
eautiful just as you are. You’re gorgeous in whatever you choose for yourself, be that panties, T-shirts, music, friends, work, or anything else.”
A flush spreads over my chest as my heart beats harder, faster, trying desperately to wiggle closer to him. “Thank you,” I say, because it’s all I can manage.
“Besides, the other lesson for tonight is that sex can be amazing when you do whatever feels right for you. When you’re ready, whenever that is.”
When I’m ready . . .