Read Online Vintage Attraction by Charles Blackstone - Free Book Online

I kind of have something I should tell you.”
    â€œI have something to tell you, too.”
    But before either of us could start, our waitress was back. Talia ended up asking for a dirty gin martini with the olive juice on the side. I’d been chewing my ice and was grateful for the opportunity to order more vodka. The waitress peered in the direction of the flowers and asked, “Is tonight a special occasion?”
    â€œUm,” I began. “We’re, I—”
    â€œI’m moving to Iowa,” Talia said. “For grad school.”
    I almost choked on the cube in my mouth. “You got in?”
    â€œCongratulations,” the waitress said.
    I was so relieved, but probably looked utterly shocked.
    â€œTo you,” I toasted Talia when we lunged our glasses.
    â€œTo your glowing letter of recommendation.”
    We ate with little fanfare. She didn’t seem particularly taken with any of the courses we had. The vinaigrette on her pear, walnut, endive, and soy Gorgonzola salad was too salty. The dairy-free butter substitute she put on a swatch of baguette tasted tangy, slightly spoiled. Talia declined a fork of my Caesar, saying, “Dude, there’s anchovy in that.” I didn’t solicit her ratatouille nor offer any of the asparagus or mushrooms I’d been careful to keep from coming into contact with my salmon.
    We were nearing the end of the meal when I said, “I’m really glad, you know, that”—I extended my hand, as risky a gesture as it was, across the table—“we’re here. You’re going to Iowa next fall, and that’s—that’s really outstanding. The fiction program is nearly impossible to get into.”
    As I spoke, the scenes of the afternoon our harrowing flirtation materialized were indelible in my mind. It began when she’d picked me up in a salt-dusted red Volkswagen Jetta with out-of-state plates. The sedan’s plush interior smelled like Crayolas. She brought us to a bagel place in a strip mall on the edge of campus. We were there to discuss ideas for her next story, if anyone happened to ask. She’d taken my hand when we left. I still could feel how my fingers felt laced between hers. Now she put her hand on top of mine and patted firmly, conclusively.
    â€œSpring semester,” she said. “I’m starting early to take an instruction practicum. I’m moving now. I might as well, right?”
    I nodded, the corners of my mouth struggling not to ascend.
    â€œI guess we’ll always have University Hall.”
    My cocktail was empty again, so I lifted my water glass. “To Iowa. You’d better write your ass off.”
    â€œI could say the same to you.”
    I smirked. “I’m not a writer. That’s ancient history.”
    â€œYou’re not an artifact,” she said, and unfixed herself from her chair.
    While she was off in the bathroom, I sent the waitress for the check. The bill was astronomical—almost half a week’s salary—and we hadn’t even gotten wine. I scratched in a hyperbolic tip, just in case Talia happened to open up the leather presenter and inspect the figures. She returned and saw the completed credit card receipt peering out from the presenter. “Dude.” She brought a hand to her little jaw. “You didn’t have to do that.” I shrugged. “What was it you wanted to tell me before?”
    â€œOh, just that I wanted to pick up dinner,” I said, looking up at her. I was aware of Talia’s tense shifting from present to past as I spoke. Really, it had occurred long before now. “It’s getting late. You probably should get those in some water.”
    She reached for the bundle of orchids, which had been languishing in the empty seat on her other side. “Hapworth,” she said, “I’ve had a really good time.”
    â€œMe, too,” I said.
    We stood outside, in front of the