The week after Lucas said "I like you" was strange.
Not bad strange. Just strange. Like wearing new shoes that fit perfectly but still felt different. We still had coffee together every morning. We still rode to the office together. We still stood too close in the elevator and pretended not to notice.
But something had shifted.
Lucas's ears were red more often now. Almost constantly. Sophie had started keeping a tally. She called it the Ear Color Index. She had a chart.
"You are obsessed," I said.
"I am scientific."
"You are nosy."
"Same thing."
Kevin had printed out the chart. He kept it in his laptop case. For reference, he said. I did not ask what kind of reference.
"Lucas's ears are at a seven today," Sophie announced during lunch. We were in the break room. Kevin was eating a sandwich. I was drinking coffee. Lucas was not there.
"A seven?" I asked.
"On a scale of one to ten. One is normal. Ten is fire engine red."
"That is very specific."
"I am very specific."
Kevin looked up from his sandwich. "Yesterday he was a six. The day before he was a five. The trend is increasing."
"You are tracking trends?"
"Someone has to."
I stared at them. "You are both insane."
"We are invested," Sophie said.
"Same thing."
---
Lucas found me in my office after lunch. He had a stack of papers in one hand and my coffee in the other. His ears were pink. Not red. Pink. A five on Sophie's scale.
"You look worried," I said.
"I am not worried. I am confused."
"About what?"
He set the coffee on my desk. "About us."
"Us?"
"You and me. This." He gestured between us. "Whatever this is."
I leaned back in my chair. "What do you want it to be?"
He was quiet for a moment. His ears turned redder. A six. Maybe a seven.
"I do not know," he said. "You have amnesia. You are still figuring out who you are. I do not want to push you into something you are not ready for."
"What if I am ready?"
"You do not know that."
"Yes I do."
"How?"
I stood up. Walked around my desk. Stopped in front of him. Close. Too close. His ears turned fire engine red. A ten. Definitely a ten.
"Because I am standing here," I said. "Close to you. And my heart is pounding. And my hands are shaking. And I am not scared."
"You should be scared."
"Why?"
"Because I have been waiting for five years. And now that you are here, I do not know what to do."
I smiled. "That is the most romantic thing you have ever said."
"It is not romantic. It is pathetic."
"It is both."
He stared at me. His ears were very red.
"Vivian," he said.
"Yes?"
"Can I take you to dinner?"
"Dinner?"
"A real dinner. Not at Marlene's. Not at your apartment. Somewhere with tablecloths and forks and no dying plants."
"The ficus is not dying. It is growing."
"The ficus has one leaf."
"It is a very determined leaf."
"Can I take you to dinner?"
I looked at him. At the man who waited five years. Who drank chamomile tea he hated. Who lived below me just to make sure I was safe.
"Yes," I said. "You can take me to dinner."
His ears turned redder.
I did not think that was possible.
---
The restaurant was fancy.
Too fancy. White tablecloths. Candlelight. Forks everywhere. I did not know which fork to use. There were three of them. Who needed three forks?
"You are staring at the forks," Lucas said.
"There are three forks."
"Yes."
"Why are there three forks?"
"One for salad. One for the main course. One for dessert."
"That is excessive."
"That is fine dining."
"I am a billionaire. I should know how to eat at fine dining restaurants."
"You are a billionaire who forgot she was a billionaire."
"I forgot about the forks too."
He smiled. "Use the outside fork first. Then work your way in."
"That is the most useful thing anyone has ever told me."
"I try."
The waiter came. He handed us menus. The words were in French. I did not speak French.
"Lucas," I whispered.
"Yes?"
"The menu is in French."
"I know."
"I do not speak French."
"I know."
"What am I supposed to do?"
"Point at something and hope for the best."
I stared at him. "That is your advice?"
"That is my advice."
I pointed at something on the menu. The waiter nodded. Lucas ordered in perfect French. Show off.
"What did I order?" I asked after the waiter left.
"Escargot."
"What is escargot?"
"Snails."
"You made me order snails?"
"You pointed."
"I pointed because you told me to point!"
"You did not have to point at the snails."
"I did not know they were snails! The menu was in French!"
He was laughing. Silently. Shoulders shaking. Trying to hide it behind his hand.
"You are laughing at me," I said.
"I am not laughing. I am smiling internally."
"That is not a thing."
"It is now."
I threw my napkin at him. He caught it. Annoying.
---
The snails arrived.
They were in shells. With garlic butter. They smelled amazing. I did not want to like them. But I did.
"These are good," I said.
"Snails are good."
"I cannot believe I just said that."
"Life is full of surprises."
"Like finding out I like snails?"
"Like finding out you are a good person."
I looked at him. The candlelight flickered between us. His face was soft. His eyes were soft. His ears were pink.
"Lucas," I said.
"Yes?"
"Thank you. For this. For dinner. For the forks tutorial. For not making fun of me for not knowing French."
"You pointed at snails."
"I will never live that down, will I?"
"Never."
I laughed. He smiled. The restaurant was fancy. The candles were flickering. The forks were everywhere.
But I was not thinking about any of that.
I was thinking about the man across from me. The one who waited five years. Who drank chamomile tea he hated. Who lived below me just to make sure I was safe.
Who took me to dinner and let me point at snails.
"I like you," I said.
"I know."
"I like you a lot."
"I know that too."
"Your ears are red."
"They are always red around you."
"Good."
He raised an eyebrow. "Good?"
"Good," I said. "Because my ears are not red. But my heart is doing something complicated. And I think that is the same thing."
He looked at me for a long moment. Then he reached across the table. His hand found mine.
"Vivian," he said.
"Yes?"
"I like you too."
"I know."
"Good."
We sat there, holding hands, surrounded by forks and candlelight and snails.
The waiter came. He looked at our hands. He looked at our faces. He did not say anything. He just refilled our water and walked away.
Some people understand without words.
---
Dinner lasted three hours.
We talked about everything. His childhood. His mother. His father who left. His dreams of becoming something more than a small town boy.
"I never thought I would end up here," he said. "Working for a billionaire. Living in the city. Eating snails."
"Do you like it?"
"Here? With you?"
"Yes."
He looked at me. "I like it very much."
My heart did something complicated again.
"Lucas," I said.
"Yes?"
"Can we do this again?"
"Dinner?"
"Yes. Dinner. With forks and candlelight and no dying plants."
"The ficus is not dying."
"The ficus has one leaf."
"It is a very determined leaf."
I laughed. He smiled.
"Yes," he said. "We can do this again."
---
He drove me home. The city was dark. The streets were quiet.
"Thank you for tonight," I said.
"You do not have to thank me."
"I know." I looked at him. "But I wanted to."
He smiled. His ears were red.
"Goodnight, Vivian."
"Goodnight, Lucas."
I walked to the elevator. Turned around. He was still standing there, watching me.
"Your ears are still red," I called out.
"I know."
"Good."
I stepped into the elevator. The doors closed.
I smiled all the way up.