Chapter 34
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Grace
I’ve learned red is really my color. It might be my fair skin tone and dark hair, making vibrant scarlet tones pop.
It turns heads, especially when I pair it with red lips and wavy tresses pulled to one side.
And that’s exactly how I’m dressed when Andrew knocks on my door.
I’m greeted by him dressed in a dark charcoal suit and a large bouquet of red roses.
“I thought you might like the real ones this time.”
“Thank you.” I take them from him, the rich floral scent mixing with his spicy cologne.
I notice his hair is slicked back, tamping down the wayward waves I love to run my fingers through.
I turn toward the kitchen to set the beautiful arrangement on the counter, and when I turn to face Andrew, I see he’s keeping a considerable amount of distance between us.
He eyes me, up and down, and I realize the purposeful space is so he can admire me. Take in all of me the way one would take in a painting, appreciating the array of details you’d miss at the edges out of your periphery if you were to be standing too close.
“You look amazing, Grace.” I didn’t expect him to react this way, seeing me in anything but my unremarkable work clothes or wrinkled pajama pants. He looks surprised. Almost speechless.
“You look shocked that I look good in a dress.”
He closes the space between us, looping his hand around my waist. “I just can’t believe you’re my girlfriend. That’s all.”
I roll my eyes, though the compliment hooks all the way to my chest, tugging at my insides and stirring them awake. “Stop blowing smoke up my ass.”
“What?” He sounds genuinely insulted. “Why would you think I don’t think my girlfriend is beautiful?”
“You’ve seen me in a dress,” I point out. “Don’t act like this is something new.”
He cups my cheek, running his thumb over my jaw. “Every time I see you, I feel like I’m seeing you for the first time.”
This time, I don’t shoo away his flattery. In fact, it doesn’t feel like he’s sweet-talking me at all. He sounds sincere.
“How come you didn’t use your key?”
“I’m taking you out on our first date,” he answers matter-of-factly. “First dates don’t let themselves in.”
“Oh, if that’s the case, I’ll make sure I do what I do on first dates.”
“What’s that?”
“Go home alone.” I scrunch my nose and poke my finger into his chest, playing into our little game.
“Ho–hold on. Let’s not make any rash decisions.”
I offer a delighted giggle and a quick peck to the corner of his mouth. Assurance that of all the outcomes tonight may have, either one of us going home alone isn’t going to be one of them.
“I just need to grab my purse, and I’m ready to go.”
After I have my small clutch, I slip on a pair of nude pumps by the door, relieved my blisters have healed since I’ve opted for some footwear that’s been properly broken in.
Andrew’s picking some lint off his suit lapel, and he runs his hands over it to smooth out any wrinkles. I take over, gliding my palm over his shoulders, swiping away at any small specks he may have missed.
“You know, you don’t look too bad yourself,” I tell him. “Boyfriend.”
He grins like a damn fool. “You think so?” He stands up straighter, plucking at the collar of his white dress shirt he wore sans tie. His chin is tilted upward with pride, and I want to just pinch his cheeks. Instead, I settle for buttoning his suit jacket and grabbing my keys.
Andrew makes a show of opening the passenger door for me to his freshly washed Mazda and closing it after I slide in. I watch him round the hood to the driver’s side. I’m surrounded by a waft of new car smell, an air freshener that most likely came with the car wash he obviously paid for.
“So, you really aren’t going to tell me where we’re going?”
Andrew pulls out of the parking spot in my building’s garage, taking the turns around stretches of packed parking spots. He holds an impassive look directed toward the barrier boom as we leave the garage. When he finally peers over at me, a smirk hides behind his cool look of composure.
“I told you, it’s a surprise.”
“But like…is it nearby? Or…”
“Can’t handle the pressure of a surprise?”
“No, it’s fine,” I answer meekly with a dismissive shrug.
I really can’t pinpoint it. My stomach feels a little jittery, and I don’t know if this “first date” makes me nervous, or if I’m hungry.
I can’t help but feel that everything is perfect and as it should be when we’re in our bubble.
What if outside of it, he realizes we don’t really fit?
All the elements of the outside world will mix with what we have, making it muddled and tainted.
“If you’re worried about running into someone we know, we’re going out of San Diego,” he tells me.
Is that why I’m nervous? Am I worried about running into someone we know? I consider it a possibility for my slightly rattled nerves as I jokingly ask, “What, like Tijuana?”
He laughs. “No, like Orange County. Specifically, Irvine.”
“Irvine? What’s in Irvine?”
“I know a place.” He winks at me, holding tight to his ultra-secret itinerary.
Though the drive is a little longer than we’re used to, we fill it with random pillow talk.
The kind of conversation that comes naturally between us.
He tells me about his work, if he’s heard anything else from the interview with The Hope Foundation.
He tells me about a recent CNN article he read about artificial intelligence and the misuse of it, commenting how creating reels of a hundred cats doing yoga isn’t as productive as using it for something like cancer research.
I add in my two cents, throwing in how AI is a detriment to the creative community.
He also tells me about a new fish oil for dogs that can easily be added to Buster’s food after he noticed he’s been scratching behind his ears more frequently.
By the time I tell him about a new book I started about two estranged sisters who come together after one has been diagnosed with a terminal illness, we’re exiting the highway.
The conversation somehow segues into what song we’d want played at our funeral—“Shake It Off” by Taylor Swift for me, “Eye of the Tiger” by Survivor for him—when we’re pulling into Warehouse 72.
The valet opens my door, and I step out with care. Andrew’s already at my side, his hand extended in my direction to help me out of the car. He doesn’t let go, linking our fingers as soon as the valet hands him his ticket.
“I feel like royalty,” I whisper as he leads the way inside.
“Does that mean I should call you princess tonight?”
“Hmm, I kind of like that.” He hooks my hand into the crook of his arm. With his elbow bent, securing my loose grip, and my boyfriend looking so handsome and suave, I really do feel like royalty. Maybe not the kind with a gold throne, but one a very doting subject.
Once we round the entryway to the hostess desk, I notice it’s bustling. Saturday night at peak dinner rush time, and it looks like date night is on everyone’s itinerary. I cling to Andrew closely, using my other hand to grip his bicep. He gives a gentle tug. A clear sign we won’t get separated.
He tells the hostess his name and that we have a reservation, and we barely have a minute to ourselves before we’re following a young man in a white dress shirt and pressed slacks holding large menus to a small, secluded table for two.
Large glass goblets and polished silverware are systematically placed on the table with a votive candle in the middle.
The lights in the restaurant are low, creating a muted effect.
It tints the room with secrets and intimate rendezvous, all behind dark shadows.
I look across the table, and the engrossed scowl on Andrew’s face is adorable as he looks over the menu.
I reach across the table and hook my fingers over the top of his menu to lower it.
He looks at me and the deep furrow between his brow vanishes, a sweet smile in its place.
“It’s really nice here.”
He grins, lighting up the dullness around us. “I wanted tonight to be special.”
“And it is, but I just want to tell you,” I add. “It would’ve been just as special at home. I like your home-cooked meals.”
“You haven’t gotten tired of my grilled cheese sandwiches?”
I shake my head vigorously, expressing how far from the truth his question could be. “I appreciate this too. I just don’t want you to think I want this all the time.”
“I know.” He reaches for my hand, grazing his thumb over my knuckles, and a small part of me wishes we were home. Where we’d be in private and the darkness would be from watching movies with the lights out to create a theater effect, not overdone ambiance lighting.
“I’m going to go to the little girl’s room,” I announce. “Can you order me a—”
“Ketel vodka?”
I smile. “Yes please.” I lay my napkin on the table next to my shiny forks and sashay away to the ladies’ room, knowing Andrew is watching me.
The bathroom looks like an extension of the restaurant with its shimmery white countertops and rich afterglow.
It smells like plumerias inside instead of the usual stench of toilet water most bathrooms have.
As I’m finishing up and washing my hands, a young woman who doesn’t look a minute over the age of twenty-one stumbles out of a stall.
Her dress, much like her obvious youth, is a direct contrast to mine.
It’s a metallic kind of color, one that looks like it should be draped around a ball and hung over the center of a dance floor.
She smiles at me, giggling a little sloppily.
Her alcohol consumption seems to make her as friendly as it makes her bold.
“Oh my god, that dress is gorgeous,” she gushes at me as she’s towel drying her freshly washed hands. Her hand trails my arm, and her friendliness oozes into my own pores.
“Thank you,” I tell her with a smile. “Yours looks amazing too.”