My Boyfriend, Apparently

By the following Friday, I had learned three things about dating Adrian Vale.

He liked hearing my voice before bed.

He was willing to lose arguments about restaurants if it meant I would choose the next one.

And he could stand perfectly still across a crowded room while making it obvious, to me at least, that he wanted to put his hands on me.

The room belonged to Leah's friend, who was celebrating the opening of a small design studio. Leah had invited me weeks earlier. I had invited Adrian after he asked what I was doing Friday, then spent six minutes assuring him that people would be wearing jeans.

Now he stood beside a display of ceramic lamps, speaking to the owner. His sleeves were rolled. His hair was less orderly than usual because I had touched it in the car.

I was beginning to understand the appeal of leaving evidence.

“Julian Mercer?”

I turned and found Ben standing behind me with two glasses of wine.

We had gone out three times the previous winter. He had been sweet, attractive, and immediately aware that I talked about my boss more than a person should.

“Ben. Hi.”

He handed me a glass.

“How are you?”

“Good. New job.”

“The development thing?”

I nodded.

“That's great. You wanted that.”

He remembered. I was pleased, and then embarrassed that remembering a fairly ordinary fact had become something I noticed so intensely.

We talked about his work and the studio. Across the room, Adrian finished his conversation.

His eyes found mine. Found Ben. Paused.

Ben touched my elbow as someone squeezed past us.

“We should get a drink sometime,” he said. “Catch up without being trapped between lamps.”

“I'm seeing someone,” I told him.

His gaze flicked toward Adrian.

Then he grinned.

“Oh, thank God.”

I nearly inhaled my wine.

“Excuse me?”

“You spent our second date explaining why his silence didn't necessarily mean he was angry.”

“I was discussing communication styles.”

“You were gone, Julian.”

From behind him, Adrian began walking toward us.

I considered hiding behind a floor lamp.

Ben introduced himself, shook Adrian's hand, and wished us a pleasant evening with an expression I intended to punish later by text.

Adrian watched him leave.

“A friend?”

“Someone I dated briefly.”

“I see.”

His face settled into the careful expression he used for unwelcome changes to a timetable.

“Don't do that,” I said.

“What?”

“Look like someone moved your flight.”

He glanced at me. “I was being perfectly civil.”

“You were. It was terrifying.”

He offered to get me water. I said yes. When he came back, he stayed near me, but his hand didn't find my back the way it usually did.

On the drive home, he asked whether I wanted to go to my apartment or his.

“Yours,” I said. “Unless you've scheduled a private meeting with your feelings.”

He looked at me, then laughed once, without much amusement.

“Am I that obvious?”

“Only to someone who's studied the subject.”

At his apartment, he set his keys down and stood by the table.

“I'm not upset that you dated him,” he said.

“Good, because I wasn't planning to apologize.”

“I didn't expect you to.”

I waited.

“When he touched your arm, I wanted to come over,” he said. “Then I realized I didn't know what I was coming over as.”

“You could have asked me.”

“I tried to find a sensible way to do that beside a lamp shaped like a mushroom.”

I bit my lip.

“Don't laugh,” he said.

“I'm trying very hard.”

He leaned back against the table, arms loose at his sides.

“Are we dating only each other?”

The question landed softly. My instinct was to make a joke, turn it sideways, keep it from touching anything vulnerable.

Instead, I said, “I am.”

“So am I.”

The room seemed to get quieter.

“I heard you tell Ben you were seeing someone,” he said. “I wanted to know whether you'd call me that if I asked.”

I looked down at the edge of the rug.

“Of course I would.”

“Then why do you look worried?”

Because I had liked him when nothing was possible. Because possibility had become a dinner, a kiss, a shirt I hadn't yet returned. Because I now knew the sound he made when he woke up, and losing that would hurt in a way losing an attractive boss never could.

“I'm waiting for you to realize this is less interesting when I stop being an amusing incident in reception,” I said.

He crossed the room, stopping in front of me.

“I've been looking at dates next month.”

“For what?”

“A weekend away, if you wanted to come. There's a place by the coast my mother used to take me. I haven't booked it.”

“You've been planning a trip?”

“I've been hoping to have a boyfriend to ask.”

I looked up.

His face was completely serious. The seriousness undid me more effectively than any flirtation.

“You could have started with that,” I said.

“I thought I was.”

I put my hands against his chest.

“Yes.”

“To the trip?”

“To being your boyfriend, you difficult man. Ask me about the trip afterward.”

His breath left him in a laugh. Then his arms closed around me, pulling me against him with a relief I could feel in his shoulders.

I kissed the side of his neck, and he stopped laughing.

“Oh,” I said. “Useful information.”

“Julian.”

“My boyfriend has sensitive skin. I'm learning.”

He took my face between his hands and kissed the grin off my mouth.

Later, we lay on the sofa, my legs over his, arguing about what to watch. He let me choose and then complained about every decision the characters made.

Halfway through, I reached for my phone.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Making a note that my boyfriend talks during films.”

His hand settled over my ankle.

“Say it again.”

“What, that you talk?”

He looked at me.

I put down the phone and moved closer.

“My boyfriend,” I said, quietly this time.

He smiled before he kissed me. I was still getting used to being allowed to see that smile whenever I could cause it.

On Sunday evening, I went home to prepare for Monday. The Riverton assessment had reached the point where Maya wanted original records before committing more staff time. Adrian had authorized access to the family archive after our first visit, and Leah had spent two weeks working through its unhelpful index.

Her message arrived while I was putting Adrian's borrowed shirt into the wash.

Leah: The complete project box is here. Original correspondence, financial schedules, authorizations. Some of it relates to your father.

I sat down on the bed.

A second message followed.

Leah: You and Adrian should see it together. Tomorrow morning, if you're both free.

I called him.

He answered with a warmth I could hear in the first syllable of my name.

“Did you forget something?”

“Leah found the records.”

His voice changed, but he didn't pull away from the subject.

“Then let's look at them,” he said. “Together.”