Scandalized(9)

“And your parents?”

“They’re retired, just outside of London. They’re doing well.” Alec’s smile comes in so many forms, and this one is sweetly polite. It’s the one he would give when I’d pass him something at the dinner table, when he was instructed to say good night as I was leaving. “I’ll relay that you asked after them.”

“Thanks. Tell your mom I’m a great weed puller thanks to her.” We fall into a few beats of silence where we both stare into our glasses. “What did you do after you moved?” I ask.

He takes another sip of his drink before answering. “I moved to Seoul after graduating and returned to London…” He pauses, thinking. “Let’s see, a bit over three years ago now.”

I realize that’s what I’m hearing in his accent; it’s beautiful. “Oh, wow. You lived in Korea?”

“I did.” He smiles, and then it dies away. It’s the death of small talk: inquiring about family, doing the easy update, reaching the end of our knowledge about each other’s lives. Sexual innuendos have been awkwardly played out. I dig around for something more engaging to ask, but everything that comes to mind seems deeply inappropriate.

Are you married?

Are those hands as strong as they look?

What do you look like naked?

Finally, I string words together. Unfortunately, he’s doing the same thing and our questions burst out in overlapping awkwardness:

“How long will you be in LA?” / “How are your parents?”

“Sorry,” we say in unison.

“Go ahead,” also in unison.

I clap a hand over my mouth and point to him with the other. “You,” I mumble against my palm.

“I’m in LA for a couple weeks,” he says, laughing. “Actually, some of my colleagues left for Los Angeles two days ago. I was delayed but will meet them there.” He sips his drink. “And now your turn. How are your parents?”

“They’re fine,” I say. “They’re in Europe until next week.”

He narrows his eyes, nodding. “They traveled a lot? Wasn’t your dad a diplomat? Am I remembering that right?”

“Close. He works for the State Department. Mom travels with him as much as she can.” I don’t add that this is Mom’s first trip since Spence and I broke up, that she basically put her life on hold to help me pick up my pieces. I wash the weird catch in my throat down with a sip of wine. “Did you ever meet them?”

“Once or twice when I was picking Sunny up at your house. If I recall, your father is very tall, and your mother is—”

“Very not tall?” I nod, laughing. My father is six-foot-four. My mother is well over a foot shorter. “I was always hoping to get his height, but…” I gesture to myself. “I’m the person who always makes sure the doctor writes down five-foot-three and a half on my chart.”

He smiles at me and licks his lips distractingly. So distractingly, in fact, that it takes me a second to process his next question. And then my heart takes a nosedive off a cliff.

“No,” I finally manage. “I’m not married.…”

The way I’ve said it—trailing off, with a grimace—clearly leaves the impression that there’s a story there. Shit. Why did I do that? The last thing I want to do is talk about Spence tonight, not with Alec sitting across from me looking the way he does.

He nods, brows slowly rising, and I guess I have to explain my weird answer. “I’m about six months out of a long-term relationship. Rough breakup, and he took most of our friends with him.”

“Ah.” He sips his whiskey again. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.” Fidgeting, I pull my hair up and he watches my fingers quickly twirl it and tuck it into a bun. My hair is stick straight and dry now, and I feel a few strands escape and brush against my neck. He tracks that movement, too. “It really should have ended sooner.”

Alec watches me, his gaze unswerving. “What happened?”

We stare at each other for a few wordless moments before my smile breaks free.

“Are we really doing this?” I ask. “The below-the-surface catch-up?”

“Why not?” His answering smile is sly and playful. “We’ve covered work and family. Will we ever see each other again?” He’s talking about sharing our stories, but I sense another dare below the surface—a heated one.

“He fucked up,” I say baldly.

Alec’s expression shifts. “With you?”

I like the way he says this. Disbelieving, like he can’t fathom it.

“Not in the way you’re thinking,” I tell him.

I’ve only really talked about this with three people: my parents and my best friend, Eden. Not only because our mutual friends all decided I was overreacting and should give Spence another chance, but also because it’s deeply mortifying to realize that I’m a journalist whose boyfriend buried the lede every day for nearly a year. It seems weird to launch into the story with a near-stranger. But I am. Because I’m here with Alec—whom it oddly feels like I know, even though I don’t, and I’ve seen, even though I haven’t—and I’m tired but don’t want to go to sleep yet now that he and I are talking about something real.