Page 39 of When We Were More

“Do you have any friends your own age? Besides me, I mean?”

I raise an eyebrow at him.

“I can’t tell if you’re implying that you think you seem young for your age or that I look old for mine. Because I’m pretty sure we’re not the exact same age.”

He rubs his hand over his chest and smiles. “Ouch. That one hurt. I’m thirty-five. Well, thirty-four. I’ll be thirty-five on Valentine’s Day.”

He looks at me expectantly, and I stare right back at him.

“When I met your adorable daughter, she told me that her grandmother taught her you never ask a lady what her age is. Are you telling me that your five-year-old daughter has more manners than you?” I’m grinning at him now, so he knows I’m giving him a hard time.

“Yes, she probably is more polite than me. How old are you, Matilda?”

“I’m thirty.”

“That’s not that far off from thirty-five. I’m just saying.”

I throw a balled-up napkin at him and take another sip of my wine. He picks up my phone again and holds it up to my face to unlock it, then he looks one more time.

“Is that lady Sally’s sister?”

“Yep.” Something strikes me. “You’re aware Sally is Jake’s grandmother, correct?”

He frowns at the mention of Jake.

“My babysitter tried to fix you up with Jake? I’ll have to cut back on her holiday bonus,” he teases.

I take another sip of my wine to avoid having to answer him. I don’t want to have to tell him that I chickened out and didn’t go on the date. Well, I’m not sure it was fear as much as I had no interest in him that way. Which is sad because I thought my libido was starting to kick back into action after all these years.

When I look back at him, he’s studying the picture closer, concern etched in his face.

“Did you feel okay when you took this picture? Your cheeks are flushed, and your eyes seem like you aren’t well.”

I grab the phone from his hand and stare at it.

“How can you tell that?” I lift my eyes to meet his gaze.

“I have kids, remember? Were you sick?”

I shrug. “I was having trouble with my asthma. That’s all.” I look away from him, not wanting to look him in the eye.

“I wasn’t aware you had asthma. Not that we spent every waking moment together, but I did see you a lot when we were doing the project, and I never noticed you having an attack.”

“It’s usually pretty well-controlled. That was just a bad day for it.”

“Why? What happened? My mom has asthma, so I know something often happens to trigger it.”

I study his face for a few seconds, and I’m nearly positive by the intensity of his expression that he won’t let this go without an answer.

“Every year on Thanksgiving, my grandmother and I used to take a meal to my dad. He’s a two-pack-a-day smoker, and I took him food this year. He’s… he’s not very considerate and pretty self-centered, to be frank. The smell in the house wasn’t great for me, but when he lit up a cigarette?—”

“He lit up a cigarette when you were in the room with him, knowing you have asthma?” Henry’s eyes narrowed, his mouth slightly open.

I shrug.

“I left right away. It’s not a big deal. I used my inhaler a few times.”

I glance over to where his party is, and I notice the man I assume is his brother talking to another guy. The women are no longer at the table. I’d like to change the subject, and I see my opening.