Chapter 17: Proposition

I’ve been asked out naked more times than I ever was clothed. This was the first time I said yes without meaning it.

Here’s something I haven’t told you about being naked in public: people give you their numbers.

Not every day. Not even every week. But often enough that I’ve stopped being surprised. A napkin slid across the counter. A receipt with a phone number scrawled on the back. A piece of torn notebook paper, folded into a square, is pushed into my hand when I’m handing back change.

Most of them go in the trash. I don’t read them. I don’t think about them. They’re just paper, just ink, just strangers who think they know something about me because they’ve seen my skin.

But tonight is different.

Tonight, I’m tired. Tonight, I’m raw. Tonight, Willow and I had fought a big one, not like before, but the kind that leaves a crack in the air between us. Something about the notebook. Something about me is not letting her in. Something about the way I’ve been carrying everything alone.

“You don’t have to do everything yourself,” she said.

“I’m not doing everything myself.”

“You’re not letting me help.”

“I’m letting you help.”

“You’re letting me watch. That’s not the same thing.”

I didn’t have an answer. So I walked out. Not dramatically, I just grabbed my backpack and walked to work, even though my shift didn’t start for another hour.

And now I’m behind the counter, taking orders, making change, smiling at customers like nothing is wrong.

The man in the booth is watching me.

The Napkin

He’s young, maybe twenty-two, twenty-three. Handsome in an unkempt way, with dark hair that falls over his forehead and a jaw that hasn’t quite decided whether to grow a beard. He’s been sitting in the corner booth for the past hour, nursing a cup of coffee and staring at his phone.

But every time I look up, his eyes are on me.

Not staring. Watching. There’s a difference. Staring is aggressive. Watching is curious. He’s trying to figure me out.

I ignore him. That’s the strategy. Ignore, move on, don’t engage.

But when I brought him his check h, he ordered the loaded fries, ate half of them, pushed the rest around his plate, and slid a napkin across the table.

“Here,” he says. “For you.”

I pick up the napkin. There’s a phone number written on it in blue ink. And a name: Jasper.

“I’m not supposed to accept personal items from customers,” I say.

“It’s just a napkin.”

“It’s a napkin with your phone number on it.”

He smiles. It’s a nice, genuine, unforced smile. “Yeah. I guess it is.”

I should throw it away. I should say “I have a girlfriend” and walk back to the counter and forget this ever happened.

But I don’t.

“Thanks,” I say, and I put the napkin in my apron pocket.

His smile widens. “You’re welcome.”

I walk back to the counter. My heart is pounding.

I don’t know why I kept it.

The Text

I texted him that night.

Not right away. I wait until Willow is asleep or pretending to be asleep, her back to me, the space between us cold and wide. Then I pull out my phone and type the message.

Hey. It’s Kate. From The Clovers.

Three dots appear. Then: Hey. Wasn’t sure you’d text.

Neither was I.

Glad you did.

I stare at the screen. My thumb hovers over the keyboard.