I tried to keep my expectations low when thinking about what this date might look like. The best I’ve ever been on was dinner and a movie, and I can’t even blame the guy for his lack of creativity. When you tell someone you’re holding out for marriage, it takes away the need to try so hard. He settled for making out in his car and never talked to me again.
Settimo doesn’t strike me as the romantic type, so even dinner and a movie seemed far-fetched, but this… I can’t believe he did this.
We’re sitting at a table on the rooftop of one of Las Vegas’s tallest buildings. There’s an exclusive restaurant below us where waiters have been coming from to serve us our food, and a bottle of wine you could trade for my car rests in an ice bucket on the white tablecloth. A candle is in the middle of the table, and several others are lit on the building’s ledge, but the extra light isn’t necessary. The stars are as bright as I’ve ever seen them.
The dessert we ordered a half hour ago has only a few bites left of it and sits between us.
“One more,” I say, taking another sip of my wine. I can tell I’ve had plenty by how hot my skin feels.
Settimo rolls his eyes and throws back the rest of his wine while he thinks. One thing I’m learning quickly about Settimo is he can drinka lot. He’s had at least twice what I’ve had and doesn’t seem the least bit affected.
“Okay.” He wipes his lips and clears his throat. “Why did the sperm cross the road?”
I look up and think for a minute. We’re playing a game. If I can guess the punch line of his joke, he’ll let me paint him nude. Those were his terms, not mine, and I’m pretty sure it was a joke itself. He’s asked a million questions this evening about my art classes. What all am I taking, what do they entail, and what do I hope to get out of them? I was a little embarrassed when I didn’t have an answer for the last question, but I was too happy talking about it to care.
No one has ever taken this much interest in my passion. To my father, it’s been a frivolous hobby he’s disappointed I won’t outgrow. That’s bad enough, but the look in the eyes of anyone who knows how much I owe in student loans is worse. Settimo is the one exception. Am I an idiot? Probably. But it’s the one thing in my life I have control of, and I’ll never give it up.
My mind has trailed off too much to come up with a good guess to the question, so I shrug and look at Settimo. “To cross the road?”
Settimo chuckles. “Really?”
“I don’t know, just tell me. Why did the sperm cross the road?”
“Because I put the wrong sock on this morning.”
Another round of laughter barrels out of my chest. “You’re an idiot,” I say when I can breathe again.
“I’m beginning to think you don’t want to paint me nude.”
“Bold of you to have ever assumed I did.”
I’m lying. I’d love to paint him. Every part of him. I’ll die before I admit that out loud.
He smirks, telling me exactly what he’s thinking. I’m surprised he hasn’t rubbed it in my face up to this point.
“You saw my sketchbook, didn’t you?” I ask as nonchalantly as I can. Might as well get this over with.
He nods. “But you’re drawinglotsof portraits, isn’t that what you said?” If I could slap away his sarcasm, I would. Unfortunately, Settimo is relentless.
“No,” I admit.
His eyebrows lift and he looks plenty pleased with himself.
“Actually,” I begin. “I’ve fallen madly in love with you and hope to one day have your babies.”
His lips fall like I’ve dropped something on them, and color drains from his face. I want to laugh at his reaction, but I’m too insulted to. Is itthatbad a fake fantasy?
Fake?The voice inside my head would roll its eyes if it had any.
“Settimo, I’m kidding,” I say with a strained laugh.
His laugh is even more strained. “Sure you are.”
“God your ego is the size of Jupiter.” I smile, and he returns it, but it seems forced.
“I give up on the game.” I swat my hand through the air. “I suck at jokes.”
“Clearly.” He pours himself another glass of wine and knocks it back like it’s water.