Page 11 of #Lovestrong

Declan

Lena sips on a coffee with sugar and flavored creamer. I'm already thinking of how to take her out a second time, so I'm committing how she likes her coffee to memory. She's trying not to smile. When the waitress came to take our drink orders, and blushed when I said mine, I watched the grin flitter onto her face. As quickly as it appeared, it was replaced by a frown, as if someone yelled at her for it.

She's shy and keeps everything in, but her movements are too confident. Something made her shy— there's no way she was always like this.

The waitress comes back and stares down at me, her cheeks slightly pink, her pen and little writing pad ready. "What can I get for you?"

I don't know why I find her attempts at flirtation disrespectful. Lena and I aren't technically on a date, but it's just the two of us, so most people would assume it’s a date. And to me, flirting with someone, if there's even a possibility they're on a date, is disrespectful.

"Baby, what do you want," I say, looking right at Lena.

This time she actually smiles, though she looks down at her menu to try and hide it. "Grilled Chicken Bacon Cheddar sandwich, please, extra pickles, with fries. And a sweet tea, please."

She folds the menu and looks me right in the eyes, the grin still playing on her lips. After a heartbeat, she reaches over and cups the side of my face, running her thumbs along my bottom lip. My breath catches in my throat, and I don't know what's gotten into her, but for the first time since I was like twelve, a girl has managed to turn me on without really doing anything.

"I'll have the same," I say, picking my menu up without looking at it, or the waitress, as I hold it in the air for her to take.

Once she walks away from the table, Lena drops her hand from my face and actually busts out laughing. "Oh my God, did you see her face? She’s so mad. She's probably going to spit in my food."

Her voice is light and full of excitement. It's like an entirely different person magically appeared at the table with me. Her eyes are brighter, she's sweet— this is the real her, that much is obvious.

I'm surprised she's talking, and we chat, about nothing important, all the way through lunch. I learn a little about her, but it's not enough, because the more she talks, the more I want to know. She used to play soccer, her favorite color is green, and she loves to read. She likes hiking and snakes, but isn't a fan of flowers because she's allergic to pollen.

When the waitress brings the check, I grab it off the table and Lena smirks at me again. That little up-turn of her lip is the hottest look a girl has ever given me. I take my time getting my wallet out, and ask Lena a few more small questions.

After throwing down enough for the bill and tip, I stand and hold my hand out to her again. In my head, I'm praying, repeatedly, that she takes it, just so I can feel her skin on mine one more time. She shakes her head slightly and then places her hand in mine, twisting to lace our fingers together.

We chat as we walkout of the café, and as she laughs at one of my corniest jokes ever, I lightly bump her with my shoulder. She laughs harder and reaches over with her free hand to gently grip my bicep. She's doing that thing where a girl kind of hugs your arm to her body, and my heart is going a mile a minute.

I really like this girl— this beautiful, laughing, smirking, intelligent, sweet girl. But as I let her hand go and open her car door, she looks out over the ocean for just a moment, and I see it. Her eyes darken just a fraction and her face falls back into that blank look.

It's like she's physically putting up a wall and I want to grab her and kiss her, shake her, beg her . . . something, anything, to keep her from hiding behind that wall again.

I just wish she'd tell me, or someone, why she hides behind it in the first place.