newly pedicured, freshly repainted, lucky-green toes in my warm—and dry—fuzzy slippers.
“Number one: What do you think of when I say the word . . . breakfast?”
Dante wrote down two words and then looked up at me expectantly.
I blinked. “Um, that’s it?” Usually when I played this game with one of my friends, it took hours because we all wrote such epic, rambling, convoluted responses. In fact, Valerie liked to see how much she could write before we forced her to the next word. Her record was a page and a half.
“You said to write down the first thing I thought of.” Dante looked down at the paper in front of him. “Have I done something wrong?”
“No, no, it’s fine. What about . . . Italy?” Surely that would spark a sentence or two.
Two words.
“Dream.”
Another pair of words. Okay, I thought. Interesting.
I fired words at him faster and faster, some of the best ones I’d ever come up with for the game— beauty, temptation, goal, wish, love, future, laughter, hope, heaven —determined to get him to write a complete answer or sentence—something more than two words . But after each one, Dante wrote down just two simple words.
“Deadly.”
Dante flinched, the pen hovering over the page.
“Hesitation!” I said as though I was calling a penalty. “Remember, you have to write down the first thing you think of. And you promised to be totally honest.” I tapped the top of the paper.
The color drained from Dante’s face. He didn’t look at me. His hand trembled as he scrawled an answer across the page. Then he deliberately replaced the cap on the pen and folded the paper in half once, then in half again.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
Dante handed the pen to me. “I have revealed as much truth as I can. Perhaps we can finish this later.”
I reached for the paper. “Let’s see—”
Dante’s hand slapped down on the folded square. “The rules said nothing about having to show you my answers.” His voice had a hard edge to it that I hadn’t heard before. In an instant, his eyes had changed from light gray to the dark gray of storm clouds.
I slowly withdrew my hand as though he had struck me, even though his hands remained flat on the tabletop. Shaken, I wondered what had brought on this sudden change in his attitude. Was it the game? It was supposed to have been innocent and fun.
I could feel the tension building between us, and that was the last thing I wanted to have happen.
The waitress finally returned with our food, plunking down the plates in front of us.
The interruption broke the tension. I could feel it draining away as we both fiddled with our silverware. As the waitress strolled away, I opened my mouth to apologize to Dante. He beat me to it.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have spoken to you that way.”
“No, I’m sorry. You were a good sport to even play on such short notice.”
Dante’s storm-cloud eyes lightened a little. “Perhaps it’s my turn to get to know you.”
“Oh, I’m not that interesting,” I waved off his words.
“You’re the most interesting person I’ve met so far,” he said.
“How many people could you have met since Thursday?”
“You might be surprised.” Dante took a sip of water. “Leo has been a very good host.”
“So you are staying with Leo?” I asked. “I heard he was, like, your uncle or something?”
Dante smiled crookedly. “Something like that. He’s my . . . sponsor? Is that the right word?” He shook his head and tried again. “He’s the person watching over me while I’m here.”
“And how long will you be here?”
“Depends.”
“On?”
“On how long you want me to stay,” he said lightly.
Then you might be here a long time, I thought, a little surprised at my instant reaction. Before I could say anything, though, Dante nodded toward the waitress who was leaning against the door that opened into the back room.
“Is she the Helen of the Café?” Dante asked.
“Who,
“Number one: What do you think of when I say the word . . . breakfast?”
Dante wrote down two words and then looked up at me expectantly.
I blinked. “Um, that’s it?” Usually when I played this game with one of my friends, it took hours because we all wrote such epic, rambling, convoluted responses. In fact, Valerie liked to see how much she could write before we forced her to the next word. Her record was a page and a half.
“You said to write down the first thing I thought of.” Dante looked down at the paper in front of him. “Have I done something wrong?”
“No, no, it’s fine. What about . . . Italy?” Surely that would spark a sentence or two.
Two words.
“Dream.”
Another pair of words. Okay, I thought. Interesting.
I fired words at him faster and faster, some of the best ones I’d ever come up with for the game— beauty, temptation, goal, wish, love, future, laughter, hope, heaven —determined to get him to write a complete answer or sentence—something more than two words . But after each one, Dante wrote down just two simple words.
“Deadly.”
Dante flinched, the pen hovering over the page.
“Hesitation!” I said as though I was calling a penalty. “Remember, you have to write down the first thing you think of. And you promised to be totally honest.” I tapped the top of the paper.
The color drained from Dante’s face. He didn’t look at me. His hand trembled as he scrawled an answer across the page. Then he deliberately replaced the cap on the pen and folded the paper in half once, then in half again.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
Dante handed the pen to me. “I have revealed as much truth as I can. Perhaps we can finish this later.”
I reached for the paper. “Let’s see—”
Dante’s hand slapped down on the folded square. “The rules said nothing about having to show you my answers.” His voice had a hard edge to it that I hadn’t heard before. In an instant, his eyes had changed from light gray to the dark gray of storm clouds.
I slowly withdrew my hand as though he had struck me, even though his hands remained flat on the tabletop. Shaken, I wondered what had brought on this sudden change in his attitude. Was it the game? It was supposed to have been innocent and fun.
I could feel the tension building between us, and that was the last thing I wanted to have happen.
The waitress finally returned with our food, plunking down the plates in front of us.
The interruption broke the tension. I could feel it draining away as we both fiddled with our silverware. As the waitress strolled away, I opened my mouth to apologize to Dante. He beat me to it.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have spoken to you that way.”
“No, I’m sorry. You were a good sport to even play on such short notice.”
Dante’s storm-cloud eyes lightened a little. “Perhaps it’s my turn to get to know you.”
“Oh, I’m not that interesting,” I waved off his words.
“You’re the most interesting person I’ve met so far,” he said.
“How many people could you have met since Thursday?”
“You might be surprised.” Dante took a sip of water. “Leo has been a very good host.”
“So you are staying with Leo?” I asked. “I heard he was, like, your uncle or something?”
Dante smiled crookedly. “Something like that. He’s my . . . sponsor? Is that the right word?” He shook his head and tried again. “He’s the person watching over me while I’m here.”
“And how long will you be here?”
“Depends.”
“On?”
“On how long you want me to stay,” he said lightly.
Then you might be here a long time, I thought, a little surprised at my instant reaction. Before I could say anything, though, Dante nodded toward the waitress who was leaning against the door that opened into the back room.
“Is she the Helen of the Café?” Dante asked.
“Who,
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