Intricacies of the heart

Crest called the next day and the day after. We were slowly building up a communication routine. He never went to bed without calling to say goodnight. As always, his voice was steady and careful when he called one evening. "I want to see you, but properly this time, dinner, somewhere nice."  I  didn't realize how hard I was smiling until he spoke again. "Please let me show you how much I want to get to know you."  I told him a was going to think about it. Every other day, he sent little texts, asking about my day, my work, if I was stressed out, what I liked to cook when it was just me. I liked that he wanted to know the basic things about me. When he asked where I lived over the phone, if he could drop by sometime, I stuttered. The truth was, my apartment was dilapidated, a one bedroom walk up near Pilsen, cracked tiles, a leaky faucet that coughed before it ran. The house was shabby even though it reminded me of my father and a time when my family was whole. I couldn't imagine him standing in my doorway, tall and polished polished in all his glory. The kind of man who lived in spaces that didn't echo. The thought made my stomach knot so I lied.  "Small mess right now, it's being renovated." He didn't question it, just said, "then I'll wait till it's done." I'd find another excuse. I sat back in the half light of the kitchen, staring at the peeling paint above the stove. I told myself it wasn't shame. It was self respect. But the truth was I didn't want him to see me like this, in this apartment. For weeks, Crest and I solidified our relationship through frequent texts and calls. He was busy most times, but the fact that he makes out time for me made me feel special. I was comfortable, content even. There had  been men in my life before, a couple of brief relationships that couldn't stand the test of time,  because those men were douchbags. Crest made it feel right and easy. He hadn't officially asked me to be his girlfriend yet, but I was positive I would say yes when he asked. Crest chose a small restaurant tucked between galleries on a quiet street for our date. Low light, linen napkins, the kind of place where the waiters spoke softly and the wine list had no prices. I almost didn't come. I changed my outfit twice, then three times. Why didn't I shop for something sophisticated?  I settled on a red dress I bought for my birthday last year. It accentuated my curves. He was already there when I arrived. Standing to greet me, he smiled and I drank him in, he was fine. Grey tuxedo, sleek shiny hair, he looked too good to be real. He stared at me like he was unable to form words, let out a low whistle before saying, "You look..." he paused, his eyes softened, "breathtaking." I laughed under my breath just as the waiter poured wine. For hours, as we ate, we talked about food, music, the city. He asked me questions, real ones, and actually listened. Everything in that moment felt natural. The night had gone perfectly and I was more than content. Dinner had been soft laughter, half finished glasses of wine, a quiet warmth of two people who connected. With a full belly and fuller heart, we walked out of the restaurant. He opened the passenger door of his car for me, smiling.  "Come on. I'll take you home." My smile faltered. "No it's fine, I drove." A lie, I took a cab. His smile remained as he insisted. "You had two glasses of wine, let me drop you off."  I didn't move. "I'll have someone pick up your car in the morning if that's what you're worried about." He said it like it was a just simple, kind gesture, which it was. Under the pressure of his assessing gaze, I snapped. " I said I drove, it's fine I didn't drink myself to the point of being unable to drive." He frowned, studying me. "Why are you being like this? It's just a ride." I looked away. "It's not just a ride." He stepped closer, voice low.  "You think I'm going to follow you inside? I'm not trying to..." I bristled and with a sharp voice. "It's not about that, I just don't want you to, is that so complex?" He blinked hurt flashing across his face. He schooled his features to remain neutral. "Then let me at least walk you to your car." I shook my head. "Why not?" The question hung there, so simple but impossible to answer. Because my building smells like damp paint, because the elevator doesn't work half the time, because you'd see the second hand furnitures, the chipped tiles. The life I was barely keeping together. Because I can't stand the look you'd try to hide when you saw it. But I didn't say any of that, I just looked away defensively. "Because  I said no." He nodded once, jaw tightening. "Alright, drive safe." He turned and got into his car without another word. The slam of the door echoed louder than it should have. Just like that, a perfect night ruined. I stood there, watching his taillights disappear down the street, two small red glows fading into the dark. By the time my cab arrived, my hands were shaking. I told myself it was better this way. But it hurt badly, being seen and still wanting to hide.