“Your mom doesn’t have red hair?”
“No, she’s a brunette. And short.”
“Your Nana is tall, though. I think you look like her.”
“Yeah, I get that a lot. I guess I do, except for the hair. She was brunette too before she turned gray. No redheads that we know of on her side, so it must’ve come from my mystery dad.”
“Well, it’s a gift. You have the most beautiful hair I’ve ever seen.”
She blushes. “Thank you,” she says.
We stare at each other for a few moments, and she looks like she’s deep in thought. “What?” I finally ask.
“Honestly?” she asks, and her tone is serious.
“Yeah? Is everything okay?”
“I can’t figure out why you’re with me.”
This completely throws me for a loop. I have no idea what she’s talking about.
“What do you mean? If anyone should be asking that question, it’s me.”
“Seriously?” she asks. “You’re gorgeous. You do see the way women in town react to you, don’t you? You could have any thin, beautiful, successful woman you want. Especially living in the city. I’m a chunky, awkward, country bumpkin.”
I shake my head, completely bumfuzzled. “You’re the most stunning woman I’ve ever seen,” I say. “Plus, you’re sharp, passionate about the same things I am, and you have the biggest heart in the world. And you’re only thirty. I can’t figure out why you’re out with a middle-aged guy like me.”
“You think I’m stunning?” she asked in a small, weak voice.
“Absolutely. You have curves in all the right places, and you carry yourself with such confidence. You’re like someone out of an old Hollywood movie.”
“You know ‘curvy’ is usually a euphemism for fat, right?”
My heart sinks. This is not where I wanted this conversation to go. “No, don’t say that about yourself. It’s not what I meant. Men like women with… you know…” I’m trying not to be crass and mention the voluptuous parts of her body that do it for me, but I suddenly find myself glancing at her chest.
“Your face is bright red,” she says, laughing.
I roll my eyes, but I’m happy for the break in tension. “I was trying to not talk about your chest size, but here we are. I apologize.”
Dear Lord, this is humiliating. How can a middle-aged man be so bad at talking to women?
“No, it’s fine. I’m glad you like me. It’s not something I’m used to.” I’m relieved by the light tone in her voice, but I can’t believe what she’s saying.
“Oh come on. I’m sure you’ve had tons of boyfriends.”
“No,” she says, her tone flat. “I haven’t.”
“How is that possible?”
“Well, I have a situationship with this one guy, but it’s been years now and it’s going nowhere fast, so… yeah. My friends have been telling me since the beginning he was using me, and I’m finally starting to see it for myself.”
I nod. I knew there had to be someone else. “I didn’t mean to pry.”
“It’s fine,” she says. “I have nothing to hide. Secrets aren’t really my style.”
“Well, you deserve to be treated like a queen,” I say. “Whether it’s by me or someone else. Promise me you’ll never settle for less.”
She nods. “I promise.”
