I can’t stop staring at him.
“You were very cute as a teenager,” he says, voice low and rumbly in his chest. “All gangly limbs and adorable awkwardness. And you grew up nice. Real nice.” After a final caress to my chin, he lets his arm fall to his side.
“You…you thought I was cute?”
He nods. “And interesting. I always wondered what you were drawing in that sketchbook you carried around everywhere.”
I don’t know what to say to that. I never noticed him paying me any attention—I never notice anyone paying me attention—and never thought about him like that when we were still somewhat on speaking terms. I don’t think I’ve seen him once since I went to college. “I still carry my sketchbook around,” I say, fighting the urge to roll my eyes at myself. My conversation skills are non-existent t
