All the Dangerous Things(12)

I looked down at the shucker, then back at him, horrified, feeling like a kid getting scolded for running with scissors.

“I’m kidding,” he said at last, his smile morphing into a playful grin. He must have noticed me blushing; my face turning a deep, dark red. “You know how to use that thing?”

“No,” I lied. I don’t really know why I said it. I knew how to shuck an oyster, of course. Dig the knife into the opening, twist, and pop. But this man was handsome, and I had just spent the last week entirely alone. I wasn’t ready for the conversation to end; I wasn’t ready for him to walk away, for me to be on my own again. “Care to show me?”

He gestured to an open table, an overturned whiskey barrel with a hole in the center to toss in the empty shells. He grabbed the first oyster he could find, wriggled the meat free, and dropped it onto a saltine, thrusting it in my direction.

“They key is plenty of cocktail sauce, a little lemon,” he said, watching me. “It helps to offset the salt.”

“Thank you.” I smiled, popping it into my mouth and licking my lips before thrusting out my free hand. “I’m Isabelle.”

“Ben,” he said, giving me a firm shake. It was then that I noticed his hands were empty.

“You need a drink,” I said. “Let me buy you one. It’s the least I can do.”

“I was actually just on my way to close my tab.”

“Oh.” I blushed at the thought of my flirty banter backfiring. “Well, thank you, anyway, for the lesson. And I’m sorry again about the beer.”

He hesitated in his spot for a moment, glancing back at the bar, then back at me, like he was considering something very carefully.

“You know what,” he said at last. “A couple more won’t hurt. And let me buy you one. It’s the least I can do, you know, since I’m now wearing yours.”

I let out a laugh as I watched him walk away and order our drinks, feeling a twinge of excitement in my chest. Once he came back, I immediately launched into small talk, not waiting for him to be the one to chart the course of the conversation. We talked about Savannah and how long he had lived here; we talked about Beaufort, even though I tried, several times, to divert the conversation away from home. He asked about my family, my siblings.

“I have a little sister,” I said, keeping it at that. He didn’t need to know more about Margaret. Not yet, anyway.

He took the hint and changed the subject, asking next about my job.

“I’m a writer for The Grit.” I smiled. I didn’t have to fake it that time; the excitement in my voice was real. “My first day is on Monday, actually.”

I watched his eyebrows raise, a little smirk stretch across his mouth. He was impressed.

“Wow,” he said. “The Grit.”

“I can’t wait,” I blurted out. I was three beers deep at that point, feeling talkative and loose. “I’m so excited. I haven’t even been to the office yet, but I’ve heard it’s just gorgeous. Like something out of the magazine itself. I mean, of course it is. I suppose it has to be, given their image—”

I stopped, suddenly realizing that I was rambling. That Ben was looking at me, smiling, trying to stifle a laugh.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m blabbering. What do you do, Ben?”

“I guess you could say I’m a writer myself,” he said, looking down at the table. “But that’s enough about work. It’s the weekend.”

He kept talking, but at that point, I couldn’t listen. I could barely hear a word. Instead, I was looking at him, marveling at how perfect the night had turned out to be. This gorgeous man: nice, funny—and, on top of it all, a writer. I don’t know if it was all those plastic cups of draft beer sitting in my stomach or the nearby bonfire making my cheeks warm and red or the fact that that was the first time I had felt normal, wanted, in God-knows-how-long, but something about that moment felt right. Something about that moment felt like if I didn’t seize it, I might live to regret it for the rest of my life. So I pushed myself up on my toes, leaned in close, and gave him a kiss.

I remember his lips feeling salty and soft, the slick skin on the inside cold and hoppy from the remnants of his beer. I lifted my hand and placed it on his cheek, my fingers gently touching his hair. After a couple seconds, I leaned back and wiped my lips on the back of my hand.

“I’m sorry,” I said, my cheeks flushing, suddenly embarrassed. “I’m sorry, I don’t know why I did that.”

“It’s fine,” he said, but his smile was different. A little bit bashful. “Really, don’t worry about it.”

“I have to go to the bathroom,” I blurted out, desperate to get out of there. Away from him for just a second. I needed to recollect my thoughts, compose myself. Figure out what to say next. So I took off, stepped into the restroom, and looked in the mirror, noticing the way my eyes were a little bit dark and disoriented, the way they always got when I had too much to drink. But I also noticed the way my cheeks looked so alive, sore from all the smiling. The way my chest was flushed with red, warm not just from my coat and the fire, but from all that talking. A warmness that came from the inside. A contentment I hadn’t felt in years.

I pushed myself out of the bathroom again, running my fingers through my hair as I walked back to our table. I had decided to play it off with a joke, maybe some self-deprecating jab about being a lightweight, but very quickly, I realized that something was wrong.