Chapter 18
By the time I return hours later to pick him up for our celebratory dinner, Ryan has sobered up.
More to the point, he’s dressed sharply, like this is a real date.
He’s freshly shaven, wearing dark slacks and a blue dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up.
He smells like the divine cologne scent I found in his bathroom while snooping.
This feels like a date! But I tell myself, of course, it’s far more like a meeting between two colleagues.
“I’m driving,” he says, heading to his rented sedan. “And you’re not paying. Not until I get you that check.”
Even more like a date.
“Uh…”
At my quirked brow, he says, “That was hours ago. Don’t worry, I’m good to drive.”
He’s no longer smiling hugely so I believe him.
He won’t be too adorable for my comfort with his lowered inhibitions.
Now I won’t be tempted to inappropriately flirt, or vault over those temporarily low walls.
The walls are back up where they belong.
We can keep it professional. I would hate anyone to think Ryan hired me for this position because he found me attractive.
I decided to take Ryan to Osteria, the Italian restaurant that serves the best crunchy bread in the county of Santa Clara. It’s always warm and delicious and the butter melts into the cracks. Tasting it is like an out-of-body experience.
“I’m what you might call a bread afficionado,” I tell Ryan once we’ve been seated.
“I thought I could visit the bakery where they buy their bread. Do you know they actually bake it here, on the premises? There’s no way I can get this bread unless I come here.
And of course, they have a lot more than good bread, which is the point. ”
Unfortunately I’m talking too much, which is something I always do when I’m trying to impress someone.
Ryan peruses the menu, removes his glasses, then slips them back on. “Is there anything other than bread you recommend?”
“The lasagna is fantastic, but you can’t go wrong with any dish here. My ex used to love the linguini and clam sauce.”
The moment I say it, I regret it. I don’t want to think about Chris, much less mention him in casual dinner conversation.
Ryan meets my gaze and there’s nothing but curiosity in them. “Is this a place you two came to often?”
I figure what the hell, tell him the truth.
Why not. The memory of Chris isn’t going to ruin this place for me anymore.
I haven’t been back since our breakup, the memories too fresh and raw.
This is where he should have proposed, my favorite restaurant.
I pictured him hiding the ring in my salad because he knows I tend to poke around and rearrange my food on the plate before I take a bite.
And there would be a shiny ring, Chris smiling as he went on bended knee.
This was the way my father had proposed to my mother, but hiding the ring in a cupcake, a story I heard many times over the years.
Instead, Chris proposed by taking the ring box out of his gym bag next to his dirty sweaty socks. At the gym.
“Because this is where we met,” Chris had said proudly. “And now you’ll have a good memory of this place because you need to come here more often.”
When I gaped at him, he backpedaled: “For your health!”
“We didn’t come here often,” I admit now, checking the wine list. “But I want to wash him away with a new memory. This is perfect. Nothing will ever compare to this. You, sir, are a New York Times bestselling author. And so is Elizabeth Brogan, who happens to have my face.”
“And what a face it is. We need champagne.”
“I’m not sure you should be drinking, but I’ll allow it.” I wink.
“After all, it’s past five.” He quirks an eyebrow. “I had no idea you were such a stickler for rules.”
The head waitress, Doris, interrupts. She’s skilled at being right where you need her, and nowhere to be seen when you don’t.
“Welcome in, you two,” she says. “I haven’t seen you for a while, Luci. How are you?”
“Hey there. This is my boss, Ryan Brady. He’s an author from LA.”
“Pasadena,” Ryan corrects, but I’m afraid there’s no difference for us northerners.
“Oooh. So far, Luci is the only author I’ve ever met.” She gives Ryan a wide and welcoming smile.
“Well, there are actually a lot of us. We seem to be multiplying.” I flip open the menu.
I catch a smirk from Ryan but Doris doesn’t get the joke. “Shall I recite the specials?”
The specials are recited directly to Ryan, as if he’s the only person at our table. Hell, the entire restaurant. I’ve never seen Doris work this hard for a tip and I’m annoyed when I realize she’s openly flirting. She’s tossing hair and licking lips. Ryan is oblivious.
Doris brings us a chilled bottle of champagne when he asks for their most expensive bottle. She pops it open, offers the first glass to Ryan for his approval. Only when he nods does she pour mine.
“To you,” I say, raising my flute. “And your well-deserved success.”
We clink our glasses together.
“See? Isn’t this nice?” I lean forward. “You’re allowed to celebrate the success of the book. I was taught to celebrate even little wins, and this was not a small one.”
“It isn’t that I don’t appreciate what’s happened, but it’s disappointing when I don’t think I can replicate it in the books I want to write.”
“Look, maybe every author feels that way when they luck into writing something so popular. You wrote the book after a bad breakup, but that doesn’t mean you can’t do it again once you’ve healed. Just try to get back to that place in your mind.”
“No thanks.” He pinches the bridge of his nose as though the thought pains him.
“I meant, try to get in that emotional headspace.”
He shakes his head like that’s not something he can do. Ryan must have really loved his ex.
I’d love to have that type of devotion from a man.
The only man I can ever recall behaving with such adoration for a woman was my father.
Their marriage was the goal I strive for someday.
He brought her daisies, her favorite flowers, every day just because and cooked dinner often after a full day of work, so she would not have to.
I caught them dancing in the kitchen without music and more than once making out on the couch.
This is the epic love story I want for myself someday.
My father behaved like he knew what he had and was lucky to have it.
“Would you let me read the first pages of your new book? The ones Kate didn’t like. I can offer some suggestions.”
His eyes soften from the hard glint of a moment ago. “I appreciate that.”
Ryan tells me about his younger brother, the doctor, the “successful one.” I learn he’s married, living in New Hampshire with a thriving family practice. Once a season, the brothers get together for the World Series. It’s a passion they both share.
“Tell me about baseball,” I ask.
He often stares out the window while palming a ball back and forth in his hands, much like a worry stone. There’s a story there.
“Did you play in high school?” I press.
“Yes, not that I was any good. Funny thing is, I originally played little league to please my dad. He thought I had my head stuck in a book too much and needed fresh air and exercise.” He snorts.
“I deeply resented being torn away a few hours every week from my comic books and graphic novels but, ironically, I grew to love the sport. As a spectator.”
“My dad took me to a Giants game when I was about eight. I was bored out of my mind and only later did I learn I’d been at a historic no-hitter. That’s not my idea of fun. Sorry to throw shade on your sport.”
“Not everyone appreciates a no-hitter. But it takes tremendous skill.”
We go down the memory lane of other things in life that are not writing or story related. Ryan tells me about his baseball card collection and how his first splurge after his advance was on a Jackie Robinson card.
I gape. Even I know who that is. “So that’s where your advance went.”
Ryan looks sheepish. “No. I got a great deal.”
It’s refreshing to see this side of Ryan. We don’t talk about the book.
Dinner is a feast. The scents of Bolognese sauce, butter, and garlic waft in the air around us, our entrees artfully arranged and good enough to be photographed for a lifestyle site.
Our meal is decadently delicious. We toast to our mutual success, and we eat, with plenty of bread for me.
In fact, I ask for another basket. We discuss Ryan’s latest novel, which has dual timelines and sounds fascinating.
I don’t want to tell him, but the use of time in a novel is my jam, and the book I’ve finished is a time traveling romance.
The Time Traveler’s Wife was a huge inspiration to me as a teenager, but I’ve taken the idea in a different direction.
I’ve invented a world in which time travel is the norm and two star-crossed lovers always seem to be in different timelines.
This is the novel Holly has heard about over the years and I wonder how I’ll ever explain my change of direction. My work has always leaned toward fantasy and Soulmates is a straight up small-town contemporary romance.
I’m in the middle of buttering another piece of bread when I see something I never thought I’d see in a million years.
It’s enough to suck all the air out of me.
A few booths away from us sits Eddie and he’s not alone.
He’s with my mother. This wouldn’t be so odd by itself, but when he reaches for her hand and kisses it I feel like I’m floating outside my body in some other parallel universe in which these two secretly like each other.
“Oh my God,” I say, dropping the butter knife.
“What is it? Are you choking?” He’s leaning forward, as if ready to jump across the table and Heimlich me.
When I left the house earlier, those two were both having a chat with Abuelita, reminiscing old times. Lots of talk of my father, of course, and what a great man he was.
Now this. This! What is this fresh hell?