If You Only Knew(55)

“Goulash for me,” Jimmy says.

Szabolcs creeps away. I’d offer to carry him, but I don’t want to make a scene.

“So you’re divorced,” Jimmy says.

“Yes. Yep. About a year and a half now.”

“Sucks.” He pours himself more wine; I’ve barely touched mine. We ordered a bottle. It was cheaper, Jimmy said.

“No, it was all very civilized. But thank you.” I smile awkwardly.

Jimmy reaches across the table and takes my hand. “Something incredibly sympathetic and sensitive yet masculine,” he says—forgive me, my imagination isn’t really having its best night. The touch of his hand sends a tingle down my arm. “I feel the exact same way,” I answer, and for the rest of the night, we can’t look away from each other, and we laugh and he walks me home and says he can’t believe we hit it off like this, and—

Nope. It’s not working. Not with Leo sitting across the way.

All of a sudden, I miss Owen so much it’s like a knife wound. Somehow, I haven’t thought of him in a day or two, not consciously, and I ache for him, his funny, boyish hair, his sweet smile. Yearning for my old life reaches up and slaps me hard.

I wonder what he and Ana-Sofia are doing right now. Owen was—is—a great cook. He’s probably making dinner while his wife nurses Natalia, who undoubtedly hasn’t cried once since her birth and is in fact mastering her third language. Because Ana-Sofia is from a country less constipated than my own, she’ll accept a glass of wine—so funny that these provincial Americans think everything is bad for you!—and Owen will kiss her gently upon the lips.

When we met, Owen wasn’t that great a kisser. I taught him a thing or two.

Jimmy drinks. I grope around for first-date conversation and come up empty. “Nice place,” I say.

“Mmm,” Jimmy answers.

Leo coughs. I don’t look over.

Eventually, Szabolcs brings our dinners, and lo and behold, mine smells like heaven, chicken swimming in a golden gravy, heavily sprinkled with cheerful paprika, a mountain of mashed potatoes to one side like an island. Jimmy digs right in to his goulash.

Thus, cheered by food, as always, I have a burst of conversational energy. “And what about you, Jimmy? You’re also divorced, right?”

“Yes.” He says nothing more, just washes down a mouthful of stew with his wine. That’s his entire answer. I sigh and take a bite of the chicken dish, which is unbelievably rich and succulent and delicious. I wonder if I could somehow drink the gravy. I wonder if Jimmy would notice if I did.

I ask if he likes to read. No. (Seriously? And he admits that?) I ask if he watches TV. Yes, mixed martial arts. He doesn’t ask what I watch. I ask if he has siblings. Yes. Does he like any sports, I ask? He guesses so.

Shit.

Meanwhile, I can’t stop looking at Leo. It’s not my fault! He’s right in my line of vision. Short of holding up my hand to block him, I almost have to see him.

His hair looks beautiful. It’s ridiculous that a man can have hair as beautiful as his, golden brown with the close-cropped curls, like a Roman emperor or something. It grows straight off his forehead, and he keeps it short. If he let it grow, he’d have Disney princess hair, I swear to God. He’s not eating much. Doesn’t seem to be drinking, either, just listening to the woman in the red dress and nodding occasionally.

Jimmy, on the other hand, has just poured the last of the wine into his glass. “You gonna drink that?” he asks me.

“Yeah,” I say, moving the glass closer to me.

“Figures.” He chugs half of his wine. “So your sister’s the one with the triplets, right?” he asks, his voice a little loud. Will have to make sure he’s not driving. Sigh.

“Yes. Three girls. They’re the light of my life.” I smile pleasantly.

“Oh, great.”

“How about you? Any nieces or nephews?”

“No, I mean great, another woman who wants kids. I mean, isn’t that why you’re here?”

“Um...excuse me?” I glance around, aware that several tables of diners have gone silent.

“You want kids?”

“Well, I... Yes. I do. Yep. But that’s not why—”

“Fucking A.” Jimmy hiccups. “So. You want me for my fluids, is that it?”

“What? Um...no!”

“Yes, you do! You want me for sperm!”

“Can you keep your voice down, Jimmy?”

“You know what? I’m a person, okay? A flesh-and-blood person!”

“I’m aware of that.”

“Are you? Because it sounds like you just want me for my sperm. You’ve been on my Facebook page, haven’t you?”

“No!” I mean, I have, but there was nothing about sperm, for the love of God.

“How about a little romance first, huh? Can we at least learn each other’s last names before you ask for a genetics workup?”

It appears I’ve hit a nerve. Or, more likely, Jimmy is both drunk and an ass. “Okay.” I stand up. “Lovely meeting you. I’ll leave my half for dinner with the maître d’.”

“And I’ll leave you a tissue sample so you can see if I’ve got what you’re looking for.”

“You don’t,” I say. It’s a good line, but he’s still ranting, so no one gets to hear it. Too bad.