Chapter 28 – Scott
“Do you want any dessert?” the waiter says. “I can bring the tray over.”
Chelsea and I look at each other.
“We have to see the tray,” she says.
“The lady wants to see the tray,” I say.
The waiter nods and hurries off.
Ugh, why did I say that?I think. I sound like my father.
“Is that okay?” I ask. “I thought you just said you were full.”
“I am full, but what does that have to do with getting dessert or not?”
“I—”
“Here we go.”
The waiter saves me, setting the tray down on the table and rattling off the selections.
“Toffee almond cookies.”
“How come the ice cream isn’t soggy?” Chelsea asks.
“Oh,” the waiter says.
I look at the brownie sundae.
“Well?” I ask.
We’ve seen the tray go back and forth all night. We talked about it. The food was fantastic, but the conversation was even better. I made up my mind on the drive over to stop apologizing for covering her with dust and—AND!—smacking her in the face with the tarp. And she was nice enough to pretend it didn’t happen.
After that, uh, not so little debacle, I almost gave up on my plan. But then I thought about another week of filming, having to be around her, still not knowing if I really had a chance, and I just couldn’t take it. It has to be tonight.
“It’s just a display,” the waiter whispers. “This is actually Crisco. But the real ice cream is amazing I swear. And the port is flat soda.”
“What do you think?” I ask Chelsea. “We usually go for chocolate.”
And there are excellent chocolate options. In addition to the brownie sundae there is also a flourless chocolate torte and a chocolate mousse cake in some complicated checkerboard pattern. I wonder how they do that. Or if it’s just playdough.
“I’m intrigued by that,” she says, pointing to the cookies. “They look scrumptious. Plus, toffee.”
“One order? It’s four cookies.”
We both nod, but decline coffee.
“Oh, god,” Chelsea says after her first bite.
I have to agree, but part of me is already thinking about later, when we get back to the house. I think I have some port in the locked cupboard in the kitchen. Standard feature in a house you both use and rent. But I won’t offer it until I check. And maybe tell her to wait in the other room, in case a…family of bats or something somehow managed to take up residence since I last opened it.
“Oh, so good,” Chelsea says, after her first bite.
I have to agree. The pastry melted away leaving a sweet nutty, buttery flavor. I can only imagine, if I kissed her right now, what a delicious combination that would be. But she’s all the way across the table. It would be awkward. I have to wait.
When we get back to the house, she heads into the bathroom. I take the opportunity to unlock the cupboard in the pantry. I know it’s foolish, but I carefully peek in before opening the door the whole way. Nothing but a few bottles of booze I stashed in there ages ago, including the port.
I bring the bottle out to the kitchen. I even have special wine glasses, if I can find them. I’m still looking for them—to be honest I’m trying to remember which ones are for port, they all look like perfectly fine glasses to me—when Chelsea comes back.
“Would you like some?” I ask, holding up the bottle.
She inspects the bottle.
“Just like in the restaurant,” she says, smiling.
“I think he said that was tawny and this is a ruby.”
“Oh, you know a lot about it.”
That’s literally all I know, but I just shrug.
“So do you want some?”
“That would be lovely.”
You’re lovely,I think, but I just pour the drinks.
“Should we toast?”
She holds her glass up.
“To?”
She wrinkles her nose while she thinks.
“How about to finishing the show? We are getting close.”
“Works for me,” I say and gently clink my glass against hers.
I should have planned this. I should have had a toast prepared. Something about how the show finishing doesn’t have to be the end of our time together. Too late now.
She takes a small sip and smiles.
“This is yummy,” she says. “Hey, I don’t think I told you, but I got my class schedule.”
“That’s great. I don’t know if I told you, but Marta has some prospective buyers lined up. They even agreed to be on the show.”
“Really?”
“I know. I guess people really want to be on TV. If they only knew—”
“Yeah, about that.”
Her smile is gone. Whoops. Maybe I can steer the conversation around to post show plans.
“What about it?”
“I just.” She sets her glass down and stares at it. “I know I’ve complained a lot—”
“You haven’t.”
She smiles and reaches out, as if to pat my arm, but stops.
“I have. But it wasn’t all bad. And one of my favorite parts…”
“Yes?”
She hesitates, then takes a deep breath.
“Wasgettingtoknowyou.”
It comes out in a rush, but I heard every word, even all mashed up together.
Really?I think, but I manage to avoid saying it out loud.
“That’s been one of my favorite parts too,” I say. “But…”
“But?”
“I’ve been thinking a lot lately, about how I want to get to know you better.”
“Better?” she says, but she doesn’t so much say it as breathe it out.
Then she stops breathing. I know because I do too. The world stops. This is it. This is the moment I’ve been waiting for, not just all day, but for months.
I set my drink down and take her in my arms. She fits perfectly in my embrace, like we were made for each other.
“Scott,” she says.
I don’t know what to say. I’m sure whatever I said would come out wrong, but it doesn’t matter. The time for talking is over.
I kiss her.