Dream On(25)
“Hey, it’s not every day someone shows up at a bar and tells you you’re her ‘dream man.’ What can I say? I’m intrigued.” With a smoldering grin that could break hearts the world over, he slides a cocktail across the table toward me—the gin and tonic I asked for.
I take a long sip. A hint of lime soothes the fizzy burst of tonic as it burns a warm path down my throat. “So.” I lick my lips. “Where should we start?”
* * *
“How is it possible we don’t know any of the same people?” I spear a piece of calamari on my fork and nearly moan when I chew. It’s lightly fried in a spicy ginger sauce, and the savory flavors twine into a symphony of taste on my tongue. Half an hour of sipping cocktails, comparing social media accounts, and hashing out possible acquaintances sure does work up an appetite. I’m grateful Devin showed up hungry and put in an appetizer order before I arrived.
“You tell me, Scully. This is your show.” Our waiter arrives with two fresh cocktails, and Devin lifts his Moscow mule in a salute before taking a drink. I’m momentarily distracted by the way a droplet of moisture clings to his full bottom lip before he licks it away.
I clear my throat. “I thought for sure we’d have other mutual friends besides Marcus. I guess Cleveland’s east side/west side divide is real.”
“You grew up on the east side?”
“Far east. Chagrin Falls.”
He whistles low. “Fancy.”
“Not where I lived, trust me. My mom moved us there for the school system when I was twelve, into a tiny 1930s bungalow on the edge of town.”
“No mansion on the river then?”
I chuckle. “Definitely not.” Chagrin Falls is known for its old money, so it wasn’t exactly easy blending in with the other kids at school. Thank God for Brie. She was the only one who didn’t seem to care that I was raised by a single working mom who could barely afford our meager mortgage, never mind fancy summer camps, music lessons, or extravagant vacations like so many others enjoyed.
Devin leans forward, resting his elbows on the table. “So let me guess… you already know where I grew up?”
“Cleveland, right?”
He nods. “Ohio City. Down the street from Blooms & Baubles, actually.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“I thought you knew everything about me,” he says teasingly.
“Hardly. A lot of what I ‘remember’ is a blur, like impressions of half-forgotten dreams. It seems I know some things about your life, but there are other things I didn’t know at all. Like the fact you have a brother. Honestly, I don’t even know how much of what I remember is true.”
“A lot of what you said at the bar the other night was. I did indeed break my finger falling off a trampoline when I was eight. I enjoy a good true-crime documentary, and I hate pizza—sacrilege, I know.” He drops his voice to a conspiratorial whisper and my lips part at the confirmation. “So, try me. What else do you think you know about me?”
“Well…” I take a deep breath. “Do you have a BA from Denison and an MBA from Ohio State?”
“Ding-ding.”
“Okay. Were you an all-state soccer player your senior year of high school?”
“And junior year.” He clicks his tongue as he winks.
I laugh. “And…” I stare into the middle distance, trying to remember. “Do you happen to have a scarf? Dark red with fringe and a pattern of little white circles? I know it’s weird, but somehow I think I’ve seen it before. I even had a feeling you might wear it tonight—if it wasn’t so warm out.”
He stares at me for so long sweat threatens to gather between my shoulder blades and I shift in my seat.
“Wrong,” he finally says.
“Oh well. See? I don’t know everything about you.”
“It has white squares, not circles. It was my grandpa’s favorite—the first thing he bought at Higbees after he immigrated from Poland and started selling flowers out of a pushcart downtown. He gave it to me before he died.”
“I’m so sorry.”
He waves me away. “He passed a long time ago. But it is my favorite scarf, and I did think about wearing it tonight… but you’re right. It’s too warm.” Even though the restaurant’s chairs are metal backed and stiff, he sprawls as though he’s perfectly at ease. Like we’re sitting on a couch in his living room talking about the weather rather than in the middle of a crowded restaurant casually chatting about an inexplicable quirk of fate or the universe or something.
I marvel at his effortless confidence. Apart from his bone structure, which must have been blessed by the gods, he’s one of those rare people who draws in everyone around him simply by existing. Maybe it’s the way he holds himself—assured, but not aggressive. Or perhaps it’s the way he looks you in the eye when you’re talking, making you feel like you’re the only person in the room. Whatever combination of qualities it is, Devin Szymanski is magnetism personified.
Even now, two tables over, a pair of young women stare at him over their menus. A fair number of passersby—women and men and everyone in between—pull double-takes when they glance his way, and I don’t think the hostess has taken her eyes off him since I walked in. But somehow, I’m the one who ended up here, at this table, having a heartfelt conversation with Devin.