Luke said he liked The Office because sometimes you just want to laugh and not think. I like reruns of I Love Lucy for the same reason. Moving on to our favorite movies—I picked When Harry Met Sally and he picked Star Wars—both pretty predictable.
He told me a little bit about his work—not the business part or the details of how he’d gotten into it—but about what it felt like to actually work with wood.
“Even if you’re using a machine, sanding wood is time-consuming, but I like to do it by hand. It’s almost meditative.” He smiled. “Kind of magical too. Think about it—the only way to make that piece of wood smooth, to refine and reveal its true character and purpose, is by rubbing this piece of rough, gritty paper over it, again and again and again. I spend a lot of time up front, thinking about the design of a piece, but once I start in with the actual work—the cutting, and hammering, and sanding, and finishing—I don’t have to think. Maybe because I’ve been doing it for so long now. It’s like, at some point, instinct kicks in, or muscle memory. When I’m in that space where I don’t have to think, just do, I’m more myself than at any other time.”
He looked at me, looking at him, and laughed self-consciously.
“Sorry. It’s hard to explain. And I’m talking too much.”
“No, you’re not. And I completely get what you mean,” I said, thinking about my quilt blocks, but I didn’t tell him why and, thankfully, he didn’t ask. I could tell he wanted to, but he stuck to our bargain, steered clear of the complicated stuff.
Even so, I learned a lot about Luke Pascal that evening. One of the more telling parts of the conversation came when we discussed books.
I used to read a lot. Growing up, books were my refuge and the characters in them my best and sometimes only friends. In the previous two years, I’d only cracked the spine of one book and still hadn’t found time to finish it.
Luke’s reading list was long and literary—No Country for Old Men, The Book Thief, The Glass Castle, The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo. One of his choices, however, surprised me. A lot.
“Twilight?” I gasped, practically choking on my wine. “Seriously?”
He popped a piece of calamari into his mouth. “Hey, just because a book appeals to popular taste doesn’t mean it isn’t well-written or doesn’t examine important themes—good versus evil, change versus tradition, vampire versus”—he furrowed his brow, pretending to concentrate—“other vampires. . . .”
He reached for the last calamari, but I beat him to it, popped the crunchy morsel into my mouth, chewed slowly, then picked up my wineglass.
“Uh-huh. Sure. I get it.”
“Fine,” he huffed. “You found me out. I’m a fifteen-year-old girl trapped in the body of a middle-aged carpenter. Happy?”
I choked so hard that the wine went up my nose and splashed onto my dress. Looking down at the wet spot, I started to laugh, and laugh, and laugh.
“Wow. After only two glasses of wine? Either I’m a lot funnier than I used to be, or you’re the biggest lightweight in the world.”
“I’m not much of a drinker,” I admitted.
“No kidding? I’d never have guessed.” He took a gulp of his wine and thumped the glass onto the table. “Hey, do you want to dance?”
“What? Dance? No!”
“Oh, come on.” He stood up. “The band is really good. Can’t let it go to waste.”
The band—really more of a combo—was good, but until Luke mentioned it I hadn’t noticed. To me it was just background noise. Was he serious? He didn’t really expect me to get up and dance. Did he? He held out his hand.
“I can’t. Really, Luke. I’m a terrible dancer.”
“Doesn’t matter.” He flashed a cocky smile. “I’m good enough for both of us. My parents taught ballroom. Follow my lead. I won’t let you look stupid. Promise.”
This was not a good idea, I was sure of it. My brain told me I should say good night then and there. But my body, full with food and warm with wine, hypnotized by those amber eyes, wasn’t quite as sure. I reached for his hand and he helped me up, his strong arm a counterweight in my hesitant ascent.
“Nobody else is dancing,” I protested, becoming nervous as we approached the shiny, pristine, possibly never-before-used, parquet dance floor.
“More space for us,” Luke said, taking my left hand in his right.
“People are looking at us!” I hissed.
“They’re jealous.”
“But—”
“Grace. Have you ever been to this restaurant before?” I shook my head. “Neither have I. What do you care if they look? We’ll never see these people again.”
Before I could argue, Luke stepped off in time to the music, moving with such surety that I had no choice but to follow, trusting that he knew what he was doing.
And he did.
Which is not to say that the touch of Luke’s hand suddenly transformed me into Ginger Rogers. There were several missteps, some left turns that should have been right, but Luke covered for me and, true to his word, never let me look stupid. Two songs in, I realized that the more I relaxed and quit trying to think, the easier it was. Four songs in, I was actually starting to enjoy myself—a little.
The fifth song was fun, peppy with a Latin beat. Near the end, Luke raised his hand and mine, then put a gentle pressure on my shoulder to send me under the arch of our arms. I twirled like a top, around and around, all the way across the floor. My skirt flared out so wide it looked like the flamingos were about to take flight. The song ended and I nearly collapsed from dizziness and laughter.
“See? You’re having fun,” he said, holding out his hand for another
