22. CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
TRAVIS
After leaving Benji in charge of the diner Friday evening, I picked up Brenden, drove us the twenty-five minutes to Stoneridge, and now here we are in the parking lot of Lozano’s Steakhouse.
It’s fancier than anywhere I’d normally go.
I can tell just by the building’s architecture and the looping cursive of the sign.
But at least it’s steak.
From the way Brenden describes the Richardsons’ tastes, I kind of expected something like a French restaurant, where I wouldn’t even be able to read the menu and would wind up eating snails.
“I’ve heard this place is really good,” he says, turning to face me after unbuckling his seatbelt.
“For the prices I’m going to assume they charge, it’d better be,” I gripe.
He laughs.
“But we’re not paying, remember?”
Yeah, I remember.
The idea of Grant treating us makes me a little uncomfortable though.
But I’m the one who told Brenden we should go on the date, so.
“Let’s get inside. Seems like the kind of place that would cancel your reservation if you’re one minute late.”
Again, he laughs at me.
But he accompanies the gentle laughter with a squeeze of my thigh and says, “Come on, Grumptopus,” in a way that makes me feel appreciated.
If that even makes sense.
Like he actually enjoys my company, despite the sour attitude that I’m unable to rein in sometimes.
He’s the only person I really try to rein it in around.
He’s also the only person who can transform my mood just by smiling at me.
And this is a date, right?
Even if we were basically coerced into it, I need to get my act together and make it a good one.
Brenden deserves to be treated right.
So I tell him, “Hold on, stay there a sec.” Then I hop out of the truck and quickly come around to his side to open the door for him.
His eyes light up as he smiles at me, taking the hand I offer to help him get out.
“Oh, are you being a gentleman now?” he teases.
Placing a hand on his lower back, I guide him toward the restaurant, silently marveling at how natural the gesture feels.
“I haven’t been on a date in a very long time,” I admit when I grab the heavy front door and usher him inside in front of me.
“But I do remember how they work. I’m not a total jerk.”
That was essentially a joke, but he stops right before we reach the host station and turns to face me, placing his hand on my chest.
“I’ve never thought you were a jerk. You’re the best guy I know.”
My mouth goes suddenly dry, and I have no idea how to respond to his sincerity.
Luckily, he doesn’t seem to expect a response, because he simply graces me with one more magical smile, then turns to the hostess to give her our names.
She studies her tablet a moment before looking back up at us with an even wider customer service smile.
“Yes, Mr. Sanderson and Mr. Reed. We’re so glad you’ve chosen to join us tonight. If you’ll follow me, we’ve reserved one of our most requested tables for you. It has a wonderful view overlooking the river.”
I glance around the restaurant as we weave our way through.
There’s a soft lighting that gives the place a nice ambiance, rather than making it look dim.
The booths are very high-backed, offering people privacy.
And there are a couple of tiny tealights shining on each tabletop.
It all creates a romantic atmosphere.
We’re seated in the back beside a large window that does provide a nice view.
There’s a deck outside, extending over the water, with string lights woven around the railings.
I’m betting they hold small functions out there.
Brenden is smiling at me when I turn back to him.
“Not your kind of place, right?” he says, running his finger along the stem of an empty wine glass.
“Maybe not. But I can see the appeal. And I can handle trying new things.”
“It’s not really my kind of place either,” he offers.
“But it’s pretty. I imagine it would be nice coming here if...”
“If what?” I ask when he trails off.
He gives me a look that seems almost sad.
“Just, you know. If you were with someone you loved or whatever, like for a special occasion.”
“Being on a date with me isn’t a special enough occasion for you?” I tease, reaching for his hand across the table.
He exhales sharply, and I go to pull away, worried I did something wrong.
But then he flips his hand and holds on tightly to mine.
“It’s enough. This is great. Even if it’s not exactly real.”
Ouch.
That shouldn’t hurt, because technically it’s true, I guess.
This is all a part of keeping up the fake relationship ruse for Elise and Grant.
Yet it was starting to feel like maybe.
.
.
I don’t know.
Like maybe it was turning into something more.
It’s on the tip of my tongue to say, It could be real , but I don’t.
Because what if I’m wrong?
Brenden made himself clear when he said “friends with benefits.” And if I tell him I’ve been starting to see this as more, will he think I took advantage of the situation—of him —somehow?
Our waiter appears at the table, filling our water glasses and saving me from my budding internal crisis.
“Hello, gentlemen. My name is James, and I’ll be happy to serve you tonight. I’ve been told to make sure you order one of our finest bottles of wine, so let me know if you’d like any help with the selection.”
I give Brenden an imploring look, letting him take the lead here.
I’m not sure if it was Grant who insisted we get an expensive bottle, or the restaurant’s management when they heard there was a credit card with no limit on file.
“You don’t like wine,” he says to me.
Quietly, as if he doesn’t want to offend the waiter.
Or maybe he doesn’t want to embarrass me.
“You can order a beer, and I’ll just get a glass of something.”
I might not like wine, but fuck, I like him.
So I say, “I’ll share a bottle with you. I have no clue what’s good though.”
He looks surprised for a second, then he smiles and turns to the waiter.
“We’ll take a bottle of red please. Whatever you choose.”
The waiter grins, probably already anticipating his fat tip, which I can’t fault him for.
“Excellent! And here are your menus.” He slides the large, laminated sheets at the edge of the table closer to us.
“Take your time perusing, and then let me know if you have any questions. I’ll be right back with that wine.”
I pick up the menu, appreciating that it’s not one of those giant books with a million options.
But when I catch some of the prices, I blanch.
This dinner could cost as much as a lease payment on the diner.
“Wow,” Brenden says, reading his menu too.
“Leave it to Elise and Grant to find the most expensive restaurant in this whole area.”
“Uh, yeah. Are we sure...”
“What?” he asks.
“I guess I’m not too eager to spend so much of someone else’s money,” I explain.
He frowns at the menu, then looks back up at me.
“It’s fine. I hate taking money from them, and it’s hard for me to accept that they would want to do something nice for me, but they wouldn’t have done this for us if they didn’t want to. So just for tonight, I’m going to swallow my pride along with a juicy filet mignon.”
I chuckle before returning my attention to the menu.
They’re his family, so it’s his call.
And man, I could destroy a porterhouse right now.
When the waiter comes back to uncork the wine and pour our first glasses, we let him know we’re ready to order.
After he leaves and it’s just us again, with no menus for distraction, we fall into a stretch of silence.
Talking to Brenden has always been easy.
But this is new for us.
A date.
Hell, I can’t even remember the last person I’ve been on a date with.
Although he obviously doesn’t consider it a real date, so there shouldn’t be any pressure.
My body doesn’t get that memo though.
I feel stiff, and I’m sure I look out of place here, even though I wore a navy blue button-down instead of my usual flannel.
I’m worried I’m going to do something wrong and look stupid.
Something kicks my leg lightly under the table, and I jolt before locking eyes with Brenden.
This lighting makes his appear an even brighter, brilliant blue.
And he’s smiling at me.
He’s always smiling at me, isn’t he?
And what have I done to deserve that?
“You’re thinking too hard over there,” he says.
“Pretend we’re at the diner and yell at me to eat a vegetable or something.”
Just like that, I’m back with him.
The imposing details of the restaurant fade away into the background as the familiarity of our friendship settles in.
“You’re going to eat the vegetables that come with your steak,” I tell him, making sure to sound stern.
He shoots me a troublemaking look and says, “We’ll see.” Then effortlessly changing the subject, he asks, “So how’s your dad doing? His hip must be almost healed by now.”
“Yeah, he’s doing better. I don’t want him to come home until his doctor has fully cleared him to go back to work though. Because knowing him, if he’s told he can do some stuff but to take it easy, he’ll push too hard and set himself back. He’s stubborn like that.”
Brenden chuckles.
“Sounds like someone else I know.”
“I’m not stubborn.”
“Who said I was talking about you?” he asks, eyes sparkling playfully.
“I’m not ,” I argue.
Even though, sure, I know I can be.
But I’m not like my dad.
He doesn’t respond, just raises his wine glass to take a sip, hiding his smile behind it.
And okay, I’m probably making his point, but whatever.
“If I’m so stubborn, then how come you can convince me to do just about anything you ask?”
His teasing expression fades into something much softer.
“I don’t know. You tell me.”
“I...”
I have no idea what to say.
Because I’m afraid the truth of it isn’t something either of us is ready for.
Once again, I’m saved by the waiter when he comes over to deliver Brenden’s lobster bisque and my side salad, along with a basket of hot rolls that smell amazing.
We thank him, and as soon as he’s gone, I stab my fork into my salad and shove a large bite in my mouth like a coward.
Brenden idly stirs his spoon through the soup for a minute.
Then he says, “I like that you always give in to me. But I hope you know I don’t take it for granted. I don’t... I would never take you for granted.”
My heart does something odd then.
Skips a beat, or flutters, or whatever dumb cliché you want to call it.
He can’t say stuff like that and expect me not to fall even harder for him.
Is this still not supposed to be real?
“You make my days better whenever you’re around,” I say, the words escaping me before I can stop them.
But he deserves to hear the truth.
He gasps softly and asks, “I do?”
God, how has he not already realized this?
I suppose I make it hard, since I don’t exactly offer my emotions too freely.
Not the positive ones anyway.
But shit, he makes me want to try.
So I reach for his free hand again.
“You do. And you don’t even have to do anything. When I see you walking into the diner, I—” I break off, shaking my head.
“You just make me happy. There’s something about you, like you make everyone happy. I’m sure you know that.”
He shrugs nonchalantly.
“I try to make people happy. I remember things about them, compliment them, because I know it’ll make them feel good. I’m not saying it’s not genuine, but it is something I’m consciously doing. I don’t do all that with you though. Because for starters, I don’t think it would work on you. But it’s mostly because I can simply exist with you. I don’t always have to be on and sunny if I’m not really feeling it.” He adjusts our hands so our fingers intertwine.
“When I’m around you, I’m comfortable just being me, like that’s enough for you. And that makes me happy.”
I’m struck speechless again, and this time the waiter doesn’t come over to save me.
I’m trying to be open with him, letting him in when it’s never something I’ve been good at.
But I’m afraid of being too open, of revealing too much and scaring him away.
He said this wasn’t a real date.
But he’s still holding my hand.
Apparently, I wait too long to respond, because he gives me a small smile and slowly slips his hand from mine.
Then he takes his first taste of his soup, completely unaware that my heart is now practically beating itself out of my chest.
The soup must be delicious, because he moans softly around his spoon.
Which does things to me that aren’t appropriate in a fancy, crowded restaurant.
When he glances up and catches me staring, he blushes.
“This is really good. You need to try some,” he says, nudging the cup carefully toward me.
I try a spoonful.
It’s creamy and perfectly seasoned, but I’m happy to slide the cup back to him so I can watch him enjoy it.
By the time our entrees arrive, we’re keeping up a normal, friendly conversation like we would in any other setting.
Somehow the topic veers back to my dad, and I find myself sharing memories from my childhood and teen years that I haven’t thought about in forever.
It was just me and him for most of the time I was growing up.
And while we’re not super close now, I idolized him when I was much younger.
He taught me how to throw a baseball, how to drive, how to tie a tie (though I hated occasions when I had to wear them).
When something went wrong, he knew how to fix it.
It seemed like he was capable of anything.
But neither of us were the best communicators, which is likely partly to blame for the invisible wall that exists between us now.
And that’s how I grew closer to my grandfather as I got older.
He was a talker.
Standing side by side in the diner’s kitchen, we talked as he taught me how to cook.
Cooking was one of the few things my dad didn’t have much skill for, and he had no interest in it.
But I ended up loving it.
And the more time I spent at the diner with my grandfather, the less time I spent with my dad.
Brenden gives me a contemplative look when I pause my stories to eat.
“So one time, years ago,” he says, “May was walking home from a friend’s house, and she tripped on the sidewalk and skinned her knee. Your dad saw her crying as he drove by in his work van. So he stopped, used his first aid kit to clean and patch her up, then drove her home.”
“He did?” I ask, my gaze trained on him while I cut at my steak.
He nods, then chuckles.
“In any town besides Mayweather, a guy ushering a child into his large white van would probably be considered kidnapping. And I did teach my daughter stranger danger. But she knew him, of course, and she felt safe with him.” When he smiles, his face is highlighted beautifully by the soft glow of the tealights.
“Anyway, it was really kind of him to do that for her.”
“I never heard about that.”
While my dad isn’t bad with kids, it’s still kind of surprising to learn he’d go out of his way to help someone else’s kid when it wasn’t anything serious.
The story makes me wonder what else I may have missed about him, but I’m glad Brenden told me.
Then he starts talking more about May, and his face lights up in an extra special way that it doesn’t for anything else.
He gets so animated in telling me all the details of this fantasy series she’s been reading—a series he hasn’t even read himself—that he almost knocks over his wine glass.
“Oops,” he says, giggling as I reach out to steady it.
Maybe it’s not only his excitement for the topic that made him clumsy.
It could also be the fact that our bottle of wine is almost gone, and I’m still on my first glass.
“You’re cute when you’re tipsy,” I say without thinking.
“ Pfft. I’m cute all the time,” he says, then smiles brightly.
I roll my eyes.
I’m not about to confirm that, but I can’t bring myself to deny it either.
“Did you know this date was actually May’s idea?” he asks, looking down at his plate now as he scoops up a forkful of risotto.
“Really?”
“I have no idea why. I think she just likes to watch me stress out.”
“I’m sure that’s not why. Maybe she honestly thought you deserved something nice.” I slowly chew my steak, pondering something I want to ask.
Then I decide to go for it.
“Is being out with me really that stressful?”
“What? No!” He frowns deeply.
“That’s not what I meant. But May knows we’re faking this. And she knows my relationship with her grandparents is pretty strained, so this puts me in an awkward position, right?”
I’m not sure why it’s hard for him to accept that people love him and might want to do nice things for him.
Though I am wondering a bit about May’s motive too.
I haven’t forgotten the gleeful way she pushed me into competing in the games with Brenden.
“I’m still afraid Elise and Grant are secretly here because they’re planning to take May away from me,” he continues, pushing his steak around his plate now, rather than eating it.
“ No one is going to take May from you,” I assure him.
“Legally, there’s no way any judge would do that after all this time. And I promise you, if anyone ever tries to take her, they’ll have to get through me to do it. It’s not happening.”
He hums what sounds like a meek agreement.
“I’m probably silly for worrying about this. I know they can’t take her. But the idea that they still might not think I’m a good enough father for her breaks my heart.”
Seeing Brenden like this breaks my heart, so I get up and move around to his side of the booth.
I urge him to scoot over so I can slide in, then place my hand firmly on top of his thigh.
“I’ve already told you how great of a father you are, how you’ve done an incredible job raising May. But if you need me to keep repeating it to you every single day until you believe it, I will.”
When he looks at me, his grateful, awestruck expression makes me want to wrap him in my arms and kiss him until he’s breathless.
Maybe even tell him how much I want him.
How my desire goes beyond the fucking phenomenal hookups we’ve been having.
How I’m starting to imagine a life where those blue eyes are the first thing I see when I wake up in the morning and the last thing I see before I fall asleep.
“You’d really fight them for me?” he asks softly.
“I’d fight anyone who tries to hurt you.”
He leans his head against my shoulder, and we sit like that for a few moments.
Then he says, “Sometimes I think they are just trying to be nice, but I get weird about it anyway, and then I end up feeling like a jerk. But I don’t know how to stop being anxious around them.”
“You could try talking to them,” I suggest as gently as possible.
Lifting his head, he eyes me critically.
And I know what he’s thinking without him having to say it.
What would I know about having a real conversation with family?
“Yes, that’s hypocritical coming from me,” I admit.
“You’re a better person than me, though.”
“Well, that’s simply not true,” he replies, laying his head back on my shoulder.
Giving in to my instincts this time, I wrap an arm around him.
He scoots the tiniest bit closer, and I revel in his warmth.
“I know they care about May. But it seems like... I don’t know. Like they want to see her more, yet they’ve made no effort to do it until now. I’ve never told them not to visit, but they hardly ever do. And I can only assume that’s because they disapprove of me as her parent so much that they don’t want to be around me any more than they have to be.”
Okay, that’s it.
It may not be my place to get involved in their family stuff, but I can’t let him keep thinking the distance between them is because they dislike him.
As I card my fingers through his hair, I tell him, “I think they don’t come here more often because of April, not because of you.”
He lifts his head to look at me again, his hair slipping from my grasp.
“What do you mean?”
“This was their vacation spot with her, right? I’m sure it’s hard for them to be here in this place that constantly reminds them of their daughter.”
“I...” Understanding slowly dawns in his eyes as he stares at me.
“I’ve never even thought about that.” He lets out a small, humorless laugh.
“Wow. How self-absorbed am I?”
“You’re not self-absorbed.”
The face he makes says he doesn’t agree with me.
“I’ve spent so much time being sad for May losing her mom and for me losing my best friend. And then I’ve spent even more time and energy trying not to show how sad I am. In the midst of that, I’ve almost forgotten about the fact that they lost their daughter . They don’t talk about her with me.”
“Do you talk about her with them?”
“Oh,” he says so softly that I see the word form on his lips more than I actually hear it.
“I don’t really talk about her with anyone.”
“I know,” I tell him, guiding his head back down to my shoulder.
“And you have the right to deal with your grief in whatever way works best for you. I’m not trying to make you feel bad. I only wanted you to consider their perspective, because that might help your relationship with them.”
“No, I appreciate it. Really.” He turns slightly so he can bury his forehead in my shirt.
“But I don’t want to bring down the date night mood. So let’s change the subject now, and I can process all this later when I’m alone.”
I subtly sniff his hair.
“Deal. Just so you know though, you don’t need to do it alone.”
He sighs and burrows into me a little more.
I hope he understands the part I didn’t say.
That I’ll always be here for him if he needs me.
The waiter comes back a few moments later to box up our leftovers and ask about dessert.
Regretfully, this prompts Brenden to move away from me.
But I get it.
No server likes standing awkwardly at a table while a couple is being all cuddly.
“You pick what you want for dessert,” I tell him.
“I’ll only have a bite of whatever you get.”
“Like hell you will,” he says.
Then to the waiter, “I’ll have the crème br?lée, and he’ll have the raspberry cheesecake.”
I laugh softly at that.
Why do I have a sneaking suspicion that he plans to eat both?
Once we’re alone again, I return my arm to where I want it.
I don’t know when I became this person, feeling the need to hold someone, even in public, but he doesn’t seem to mind.
He leans easily into me, running a finger over the line of buttons on my shirt.
“You look really good in this.”
“Had to dig through my closet to find something appropriate to wear,” I confess.
“Believe me, I appreciate the lumberjack look a whole lot, but this just proves you’d look good in anything.”
“You look amazing,” I say.
But he always does.
He leans in to kiss me, taking me by surprise.
It’s only a brief press before he pulls away, but I chase him, capturing his lips again for a few more sweet moments.
He has a smile on his face as the kiss ends, but it fades as he glances nervously past me.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
“Did I do something wrong?”
He shakes his head.
“No, no, you didn’t. That was really nice. Um. I just thought you might be worried about doing it here. I’m sure it already looked like we’re on a date, but that makes it kind of impossible to deny.”
Oh.
Maybe I should be worried about that.
But I’m not.
“I wouldn’t have kissed you back if I cared,” I assure him.
Then I remind him how I was living my life as essentially out for years while I was in Boston.
“I don’t really care what strangers think of me.”
Only my father.
So yeah, if we were at a restaurant in Mayweather, it would be a different story.
And the more time I spend with Brenden, the more I’m ashamed of that.
“Do you ever regret moving back?” he asks.
I take a moment to consider it.
Sometimes I’m resentful of being stuck in Mayweather, of the way I escaped for a while, only to eventually wind up back in the town’s crazy clutches.
And I stuffed myself back in the closet when I returned, but that’s not exactly the town’s fault.
And maybe it’s not exactly my dad’s either.
Maybe the only person I can really blame is myself.
And as I’m looking at Brenden now, I realize that if I hadn’t moved back, I never would’ve met him.
And that , well.
.
.
That’s just unacceptable.
So I run my thumb along his cheekbone and tell him the honest truth.
“No. I really don’t.”