Page 72 of Knights Like These
“That’s a terrible answer.”
“I know it is. But it’s the honest one. I think I’ve known for a long time without realizing it, and now I’m going back through everything and seeing it differently.” He sets the fork down. “Like the tattoo. I told myself it was just a fun thing wedid. But I drew that airplane because I was terrified of being away from you, and I wanted something on my body that meant you’d always be close. That’s not what friends do, Syd. I just told myself it was.”
My eyes sting. I pick up my wine, take a sip, and blink a few times because I am not going to cry in this restaurant over a stupid paper airplane.
“I want to kiss you right now,” he says quietly, leaning forward.
“We’re in public.”
“I don’t care.”
“You’re an NHL goalie. Someone will take a photo.”
“I still don’t care.”
“Archer.”
“Sydney.”
His hand finds mine under the table. He laces his fingers through mine, and his thumb traces a line across my knuckle. It’s not a kiss, but it’s still sweet.
His phone buzzes again.
Logan:Both kids asleep. Lily demanded I sing. I sang. She said I was “okay but not as good as Daddy.” I’ll take it.
Archer shows me the screen, and I’m laughing again. His hand is still holding mine under the table, the candle is still flickering, and this is what a first date is supposed to feel like. Not the nervous, will-he-call-me kind. The kind where you already know the person better than anyone, and you’re finally letting yourself have the thing you’ve wanted all along.
We split dessert—tiramisu, one plate, two forks. His hand finds my knee under the table, and I feel pleasure zip through me at that simple contact. He pays the check despite my objections, and when we stand up, he places his hand on the small of my back to guide me toward the door. The warmth of his palm through my shirt settles into my spine and lingers there.
Outside, the air is cold, and the street is quiet. He opens the car door for me, which he has never done before, and I give him a look.
“Don’t make it weird,” he says.
“You opened my door.”
“I’m on a date. I’m doing date things.”
“You’ve never opened my door in your life.”
“I’ve never been on a date with you before. New rules.”
I get in the car. He closes the door and walks around to the driver’s side. I watch him through the windshield—tall, broad, in a loosened button-down, the streetlight catching the side of his face—and I think about a boy at a ballet barre and a man at a restaurant who held my hand under the table. Both of them are the same person, and I’ve loved both, with the only difference now being that he knows.
He gets in, starts the car, and looks over at me. “Good date?” he asks.
“Best first date I’ve ever been on.”
He grins and pulls away from the curb. I lean my head against the seat, watching the city slide past. His hand finds mine on the center console, easy and natural, and we drive home like that—his thumb moving across my knuckles, the radio on low, neither of us talking because we don’t need to.
When we walk in, Logan is on the couch with a binder open on his lap and a juice box in his hand.
“They’re asleep,” he whispers. “Both down by 8:15. Lily only tried to renegotiate twice, which I’m told is a personal best.”
“Thanks, Logan,” Archer says, and he means it.
“Anytime.” Logan gathers his backpack and binder and heads for the door, but then he stops, turns around, and looks at both of us—me in my date top, Archer in his button-down, our hands separating a second too late.
“For the record,” he says, “I’m happy for you guys. Whatever this is.”
