Eye Contact Page 15

  “Oh God, now I feel even more pressure.” We laughed and the server grew visibly impatient.

  “I’ll give you a few minutes to decide and I’ll be back,” he offered, leaving us at the case to continue drooling.

  Vaughn confronted me after a few beats. “What are you going to pick?”

  “No way, you first!” I shot back. “This is a test.”

  We walked back to our table, and he actually looked stressed. The server approached, and Vaughn audibly breathed out through pursed lips. “Time’s up. I hope I don’t let you down.”

  “Have you guys decided?”

  “I think so,” he replied. “Ladies first,” he asserted, looking to me.

  “Oh no, I’m still debating,” I retorted, despite having known what I was going to get before we even got to the restaurant. “Nice try though.”

  “Okay,” he said confidently. “I’m going to have the chocolate truffle cheesecake.”

  This can’t be happening. Of all the choices in that case, he couldn’t possibly be selecting the one that was my go-to, never-fail favorite. I was speechless.

  “Great choice,” the waiter stated, looking to me for my order. “And you, ma’am?”

  Vaughn looked at my face in anticipation, and I completely blanked. “What’s wrong?” he asked, concerned.

  “Nothing. Uh…that’s just what I always order.”

  His lips curled into a huge smile and he immediately turned to the waiter. “She’ll have the chocolate truffle cheesecake and I’ll change mine to bread pudding.”

  “No, you don’t have to—”

  “Excellent!” the waiter interjected before he quickly walked away, clearly done with our indecisiveness.

  “You didn’t have to change your order. It just surprised me.”

  “Are you bothered that we’re so…on the same page?” he challenged with one brow lifted.

  “No, not bothered, more…surprised.”

  “So what does my choice say about me?”

  I chuckled, pondering what I should say next. “It’s okay. We don’t have to—”

  “No, please. I want to know.”

  I hesitated, drinking from my water glass to give myself another moment. He leaned in, interested.

  “Okay, let’s see…you chose a dessert that’s bold, rich, and chocolatey but paired with the smooth, traditional creaminess of a cheesecake to balance it, so…you’re a Democrat, your favorite Beatle is Ringo, and you absolutely loathe big box buy-in-bulk membership stores.”

  He chuckled, amused and eagerly anticipating my next declaration. “Go on.”

  “You’re personable and friendly but actually an introvert, and you find it difficult to let people in before they earn it.” His lips relaxed and he moistened them with his tongue, never taking his gaze off of me as I spoke. “You’ve always wanted a pet but fear the commitment, and you take way too long selecting fruit at the grocery store.”

  He laughed out loud and threw his head back at that. “Please don’t stop. This is great.”

  I obliged. “You have excellent taste in music and have playlists for everything at the ready. You love to read and are extremely picky with your books, not wasting time on them if they don’t grip you in the first chapter.” He reached his hand across the table to meet mine in the middle and intertwined our fingers. It was hard to think straight. “You have really nice hands…soft but masculine.”

  He smiled and swiped his thumb back and forth, brushing over my skin. It was the simplest, most innocent contact ever, yet I was on fire. “Wow. Are you sure you’re not really a psychologist? You pretty much nailed that.”

  “Ha! Yeah right. I was just kidding about most of it,” I said dismissively, embarrassed to have said all that to him.

  “No, you weren’t. It’s all true,” he confessed. “I’m actually pretty creeped out right now.”

  “Shut up.”

  “Seriously. I’m concerned. Have you been stalking me?”

  “Okay. We can…let’s talk about something else.”

  “No way. It’s my turn.”

  “Your turn?” I was intrigued, and scared to death.

  “It’s only fair. You were going to order the exact same thing, so what does that say about you?” he countered. “Do all of those things apply to you too?”

  “I guess most of them do, yeah.”

  “Interesting, but I picked up on a few more things you didn’t mention.”

  “Do tell.”

  “You’re brilliant but too humble to realize just how smart you are.” I felt my face getting hot and withdrew my hand from his to grab my water glass. “You hate to be the center of attention and often let a lesser person shine so the pressure is off of you.” So far, he was spot-on. “You love the smell of gasoline and are afraid of the dentist. Driving over bridges makes you nervous and you hold your breath when you go over train tracks.” I grinned at how specific he was getting. His attempt at making me feel more comfortable was working. “Your favorite color is blue. You’re neat and tidy, and you get antsy when things are out of order. You hate one-uppers and people who raise their voice to dominate conversations. You shy away from confrontation but love watching boxing or MMA fighting.”

  That made me throw my head back in laughter. “Oh my God, how did you possibly know that?”

  “Just a hunch. You have that scrappy edge to you,” he replied then paused, looking at me adoringly. His lips parted and he stared straight at me in wonder.

  I felt so exposed and vulnerable. “What?” I asked.

  “You have no idea how stunning you are.”

  The waiter approached with our plates of dessert at that moment, and I was grateful for the perfectly timed intrusion.

  We both grabbed our forks eagerly and smiled at each other.

  “Here we go,” he taunted as he plunged his utensil into the bread pudding. As he rolled his bite around in his mouth, taking his time to taste it as he chewed, his eyes closed and he sat all the way back in his chair. He kept “Mmm-hmming” and moaning as he chewed, savoring the sweetness of the bready concoction, and I could do nothing but watch.

  “So?” I inquired.

  He finally spoke. “That’s the best bread pudding I’ve ever tasted. You were right—mind blown,” he admitted before making an explosion sound. “How’s yours?”

  “Oh, I haven’t even tasted it yet. I was too busy watching you make love to your fork over there.”

  He laughed and leaned back in, poising his fork over the table. “Well, hurry up and take the first bite. I want to taste it too.”

  I started eating my cheesecake, and it was just as good as I remembered. I pushed the plate a little closer to him so he could taste it too. He gathered a bite and persisted with the moaning and groaning, making his approval clear.

  “Good grief. I can’t decide which one I like better. They’re both so good.”

  “I’m glad you like this place. It’s one of my favorites.”

  “Yeah, this is dangerous. It’s way too close to my house. I’m going to be three hundred pounds in no time.”

  “I hope not. I might have to stage an intervention—for your health, of course.”

  “Okay, doc. I’ll try to behave.”

  We sat there enjoying our treats and each other then I finally interrupted the silence. “I must confess, you were wrong about a couple of things.”

  “Which things?” he asked with a brow lifted.

  “My favorite color isn’t blue, and I love the dentist.”

  “No way. Impossible. Nobody loves the dentist.”

  “I guess I’m a freak then. I love getting my teeth cleaned. I would seriously go every week if I could,” I admitted, unashamed.

  “You are officially a weirdo.”

  “So be it. I like the feel of clean teeth and gums—sue me.”

  Chapter 25

  Vaughn

  When she pulled up to my shop and parked, I was instantly sad. It had been the best first date I�
��d ever had—the best date ever, truthfully. We sat there in the cab of her car, both hesitant and quiet.

  “I had a really nice time,” she finally said.

  “Me too. I don’t want it to end,” I admitted, fearful of coming on too strong.

  “Me neither.”

  Okay then. Maybe I wasn’t coming on too strong.

  “Do you want to come in?” I asked with slight apprehension in my tone. She looked down at her hands where they fidgeted in her lap.

  She relaxed a little and lifted her chin, wanting to say something but stopping herself.

  “It’s okay, Andie. Another time maybe,” I offered.

  “I don’t know what to do. This has gone so well—better than I ever expected—and I don’t want to screw it up.” She was candid and honest, and I wanted to wrap my arms around her so badly.

  “I agree, but I don’t know why we’re putting so much pressure on ourselves,” I lamented. “I like you. I think you like me too. There are no rules, no pressure.”

  “No pressure?” she scoffed. “I feel ALL the pressure. I don’t know how to do this.” She reached down and pushed the button to increase the flow of cool air in the car.

  “There’s no right or wrong way to do this. I don’t have any expectations,” I stressed. “I just want to spend time with you…get to know you.”

  “No expectations?” she urged.

  “I promise.”

  She turned the car off, deciding to stay, but sat there still nervously drumming her fingertips on her thigh.

  I reached over to grasp her hand in an attempt to reassure her. “Come on. Come inside.”

  We went in and I hit the switch to illuminate the darkened space. She waited for my direction so I crutched over to the back of the room, heading toward my living space but pausing at the door. Turning my head to see her just behind me looking restless, I saw her eyes dart to a closed door across the space—the door to my studio. She was curious, her head tilting in question.

  Shit. Here we go.

  I knew she would eventually see it, but I was in no way prepared for that moment to be right then. After the best date ever, she was about to be hit with a grenade of weirdness, and I was terrified of how she might react.

  “What’s in there?” she inquired, my face surely giving away that it wasn’t just a closet or some such other pointless area.

  I took two slow breaths before answering her.

  “It’s…my studio.”

  Her eyes lit up, eager to go in and see it, but I had to somehow warn her of what she was about to walk into. I watched her turn toward the door, obviously wanting to enter but waiting for me to invite her.

  I stepped over in front of her, my eyes warning and ominous. It was now or potentially never, and a wave of courage flooded my body. I twisted the doorknob but stopped myself from opening the door, feeling insecure all of a sudden. This needed to happen and I knew it was the right time, but I was frankly scared shitless for her to see it, for her to see all of it.

  Her posture straightened and she pulled her shoulders back, clearing her throat.

  “Andie…”

  “Oh, stop. I already know how talented you are,” she said as she pushed past me, her body brushing up against mine as she entered the room.

  “It’s not that. I need to tell you someth—”

  Almost immediately she gasped, bringing her hand up to cover her mouth in shock. She stood still in the center of the room, slowly circling, her eyes darting around to take it all in.

  There were two desks off to the side and a large easel with my current work in progress on display. To the left of us was a corner with heavy twine draping down, multiple paintings clipped to it to dry, but she was looking at the walls. Each one was covered in different pieces of various subjects, but there was an obvious theme dominating the space.

  Her.

  Her eyes.

  Her eyes as a child, her eyes now, multiple portraits of her as an adult…

  “I don’t understand,” she whispered with fear in her voice. “What is this?” She approached a large pencil sketch on the wall that featured a portion of her face as a little girl—the only portion I could remember from that day so many years ago. Framing the partial view of her face was a sea of broken glass. When she turned to finally look at me in search of an answer, her expression was one of hurt.

  “I can explain.”

  “Please do,” she demanded.

  “Please don’t freak out.”

  “I’m freaking out, Vaughn!” Her voice rose and trembled with anger and betrayal.

  I walked over to a small bookshelf across the room and retrieved a photo album, turning to see that she had approached the pencil sketch and was staring intently at it. She was engulfed in the piece but confused, and I wanted nothing more in that moment than to hold her.

  “Andie.” I spoke her name in a plea. “We’ve met before.”

  Seconds of silence passed as she digested that information.

  “What?” She turned to face me, tears resting on the edge of her lids, threatening to fall. “When?”

  “When we were younger…children.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You saved me once before.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She was growing impatient and getting more and more upset.

  “Please just listen. Let me explain.”

  “Explain faster,” she urged, a tear finally breaching the edge and sliding slowly down her cheek. I could see her hands shaking and knew I needed to talk fast.

  “When I was eleven years old, I was walking home from school one day in the middle of the day. I’d had a run-in with some other kids at school and I was the new kid, trying to stay out of trouble, so I left. I had to walk all the way home.” She stood still, her arms crossed in front of her body, and listened. “The boys found me and jumped me.”

  A flash of a memory passed through her and she let out a faint gasp.

  I continued. “They almost beat me to death.”

  “Oh my God,” she mumbled, realization hitting her like a freight train. “I remember.”

  “You saved my life that day, and I’ve been searching for you ever since.”

  Swallowing hard at my confession, it hit me: everyone is always looking for the one who takes their breath away, but I’d spent years searching for the one who helped me breathe.

  Her face blanched and she took in an unsteady breath, walking shakily over to the nearest chair in front of one of the desks.

  “I can’t believe you’re him,” she admitted. Her eyes stared off as she remembered. “They hit you with the bat…I saw the whole thing.” She lowered herself to sit, seemingly visualizing the scene again. “I’ve never been more scared than I was that day.”

  She finally lifted her head to look at me. “I thought you were going to die.”

  “But I didn’t. You saved my life.”

  “I looked for you. I asked about you everywhere I could think of. No one knew anything. You just vanished.”

  “It wasn’t up to me. I had just moved in with Ms. Hattie and she was the first foster mom who was actually kind to me. I was so fearful of disappointing her and being sent away again.”

  “But it wasn’t your fault. I saw those guys hit you—they started it.”

  “I know, but…you don’t understand. I had just been basically forced to leave my previous foster home and they couldn’t find a family that wanted to deal with a preteen boy. I was almost sent to a group home before Ms. Hattie stepped up and agreed to take me.”

  Her head shook back and forth in disbelief and she looked at me, waiting for me to continue.

  “I was in the hospital for a while and when I was released, she packed up our stuff and we moved away. She didn’t give up on me, but with that decision, she took me farther from you.”

  “From me? What do you mean?”

  “Andie…” I moved to awkwardly kneel in front of her. Kneeling was dif
ficult with a broken leg. “I’ve been looking for the girl who saved my life for over twenty years.”

  I took her hands in mine, feeling how shaky they were and hating that I had upset her so much.

  “I know this looks crazy, but please, you need to know.” She sniffled as more tears rolled down her face. “You were the first person who ever looked at me like I mattered—like I was worth saving. You told me to keep eye contact with you until the ambulance came, and gazing up at your eyes from that dirty sidewalk has been the vision that’s haunted me ever since.”

  “I didn’t even know your name,” she cried, her words coming out in a whimper.

  “But do you remember? You said to keep eye contact. You held my face in your hands and told me to keep looking at you no matter what. ‘Keep looking. Keep eye contact. They’re almost here. I can hear the sirens.’”

  “I remember.”

  She slid her chair back, retreating away from me, and I allowed her the space to stand up. I was quiet while she paced, looking at my art-covered walls. She suddenly started fanning her face and seemed bothered by her hair, gathering it in her hands and throwing it up into a bun with the elastic on her wrist.

  “How is this possible?” she barked, placing her hands on her hips.

  “I don’t know, but I have to think there’s a reason.”

  “Really Vaughn? You’re going to hit me with the meant-to-be angle? This is insane.”

  “I know how it looks—”

  “Do you? Tell me about that, please. You’ve gone on a first date with a girl and gone back to her place to be confronted with an entire room filled with portraits of your face? Drawings and paintings of your eyes were staring at you from every single wall?” She was fuming and scared, and I deserved everything she was throwing at me. She turned away and continued, more talking to herself than to me. “Here I was nervous about a first kiss, and instead I’m hit with this.”

  I approached her cautiously and picked the album back up to show her. She allowed me to open it to a picture of me at eleven years old. The recognition in her eyes was warm and accepting, even prompting her to extend her fingers to touch the picture. I turned the page to pictures of me in the hospital after the incident. She winced seeing me in the bed, so battered and bruised.