Page 49 of Meet Cute Reboot
As I rattle off each question, Luke sinks lower in his chair. He seems to want to slink out of the video. I’m not sure what to make of it.
“SugarSquirrel says, why are you ignoring your date? We want to know if you guys are soulmates.”
Luke sits up straighter and looks at me. My jaw clenches. In response, Luke leans closer like he’s trying to protect me. He reaches over and rests his arm on the back of my chair.
I pause the video to study his face. His eyes exude concern, the intensity crossing rivers of time, hitting me now like it would have then if I’d only turned to look. They aren’t the eyes of someone playing the system to get his way.
I swipe up and close Instagram.
I don’t know if that’s what Sarah wanted me to see, but I know I’ve seen enough. The fluttering of nerves in my stomach turns into rumbles of anxiety, spurred on by the realization that I might have misjudged Luke.
Maybe he has changed.
Even if he has, do I care?
On the evening of our second date, I walked to Joe and Go’s downtown flagship store on King Street through unseasonablycold October air with my hand-me-down, slightly worn, Goodwill bomber jacket zipped to the chin and a knitted red hat pulled over my ears.
Luke was outside waiting for me, the collar on his wool jacket turned up like it might buffer the cold, his hands stuffed deep in his pockets.
When we met eyes, I felt a sizzle deep within that radiated to my limbs—an internal kindling of heat that momentarily negated the need for my leather jacket.
“What are you doing out here?” I asked quizzically.
“Waiting for you,” he said with a smile. He raised his cupped hands to his lips and blew into them. A gold band glinted on his right ring finger. I hoped it belonged on the right and he hadn’t switched it from the left before I walked up.
“It’s cold out,” I said.
“I’m from Chicago. This is nothing.” He tugged open the door and reached behind me, gently guiding me inside with his hand.
The smell of freshly brewed coffee and warm pastries overcame us both and quickened our eager steps. Brown, tans, and occasional splashes of orange and green warmed the two-story space, which contained ample seating and booths on the first level, and more in the loft. The frigid temperatures had coaxed shoppers inside. They dotted the space, lounging comfortably in plush chairs with their hands folded around steaming cups of Joe and Go’s specialty coffee blends.
When we reached the counter, I ordered a matcha latte, a cinnamon swirl bagel, and threw in an egg biscuit at the last moment. He ordered a plain coffee and a chocolate croissant. We found an open booth by the floor-to-ceiling windows and snuggled in with our coffee and sweet treats.
“What’s that abomination you’re drinking?” He pointed to my cup. The matcha’s grassy green showed through its clear lid.
“For a rich guy, you don’t seem very cultured.”
“I have a business face and a normal face. This is my normal face.” He pointed at himself.
I studied his square jaw, the scruff on his slightly dimpled chin, his squarish cheek bones, and his neatly styled hair. We met eyes and I felt the simmer in my core again. It lit into a fire. Afraid he could see the flames licking my pupils, I looked down at the table.
“Is your business face on the back of your head? Like, does your head do a one-eighty and swivel around whenever you need to switch faces?” I fingered the sleeve around my cup.
Luke rubbed the back of his head and laughed. A nervous laugh that told me he’d seen more in my eyes than I’d wanted him to see. “I was speaking figuratively. That would be sweet though.”
I looked up. “I was thinking ‘freakish,’ but...”
“Honestly though, I work hard, and I play hard.”
How little I understood the implications of that statement at the time. Other than my momentary contemplation about the ring on Luke’s right finger, nothing about him that night screamed “I’m a cheater.” Later in our relationship, he told me about his cheating past, how he regretted his treatment of women, how he was done with that lifestyle. I chose to believe him. That’s how I got burned. Not from the inner fire he stoked in me, but from his fire for the opposite sex that he couldn’t contain.
“Can I try it?” Luke asked.
I slid my drink over to him, and he took a sip.
“I wouldn’t feed that to my dog,” he said.
“I wouldn’t own a dog.”