Chapter 7 #2
The restaurant itself was warm and inviting.
Exposed brick walls, black-and-white photos of Lebanese dancers, and rows of cushions lining a long bench against the wall on one side of the table.
I slid onto the bench so Bodhi wouldn’t have a clear view of the bar.
He settled opposite, caught my eye, and mouthed a quiet, “Thank you.”
A server dressed in all black approached, name tag reading Maroun. He lit the small candle between us and smiled. “Marhaba, gentlemen. Can I get you anything to drink? Beer or wine?”
My eyes snapped to Bodhi’s. His flicked to mine. We waited, each maybe hoping the other would give permission to cave. To order a beer. To call this whole self-control thing off for one night.
Bodhi gave a tiny shake of his head. Barely there. Don’t.
I nodded back. Okay.
I turned to Maroun. “Do you have any soft drinks?”
“Of course!” He flipped open a little drink menu. “Ayran, if you like yoghurt drinks. Jallab if you want something sweet. Non-alcoholic cocktails, Arabic coffee, and all the usual fizzy drinks.”
I skimmed the list and pointed. “What’s Lebanese iced tea?”
Maroun grinned. “Ah, my baba thinks he’s a comedian.” He nodded at an older man behind the bar. “It’s from New Orleans, not Lebanon. But it’s his favourite drink, so he added it and pretends it’s traditional.”
I smiled. “Who am I to break tradition? One Lebanese iced tea.”
“Excellent choice.” He turned to Bodhi. “And for you, sir?”
“The same,” Bodhi said, shooting me a wink.
Maroun tucked the notepad away and pulled out two dinner menus, but Bodhi held up a hand.
“What do you recommend?”
Maroun lit up. “Any allergies or preferences?”
“Nope,” I said. “I’ll try anything once.”
Bodhi snorted, and I gave his shin a love tap under the table.
“Ow,” he hissed, rubbing his shin before pinching the toe of my shoe in retaliation. I flashed him an angelic smile.
“Alright,” Maroun said, opening the menu. “If you like hummus, you must try the baba ghanouj, and tabouleh—parsley, mint, bulgar, tomatoes—”
“We’ll have both,” I said instantly. “To share.”
Maroun scribbled it down. “For mains we have kofta meshwi, kabab, falafel, foul moudamas—”
“Maroun!” his father barked from behind the bar. “We will make a bit of everything for them.”
“You don’t have to do that,” Bodhi said, and I nodded. “We don’t want to be an inconvenience.”
“Bah,” the man waved us off. “It is fine. We are quiet tonight.”
I glanced around. Quiet was an understatement. We were the only people here. I guess it was a slow night.
“That alright with you?” Bodhi asked.
I shrugged. “More food for us.”
He grinned at Maroun. “Alright, then. We’ll try it all.”
And I’d love to say we regretted those words when plate after plate after plate appeared. But that would be a lie. Every dish was more delicious than the last, from the fluffy pitta bread with spiced hummus to the lamb kebabs that practically melted on my tongue.
When Maroun asked if we’d like to try some Lebanese ice cream for dessert, I couldn’t refuse, even as I rubbed my protruding belly like a lucky Buddha statue. Hell, I even asked Bodhi if he wanted to give it a rub to increase his good fortune, only to be met with his middle finger.
After food, I nursed a tiny cup of Arabic coffee. Liquid warmth and bitterness in perfect balance.
“You know,” I said, glancing around the restaurant. “My grandad was the kind of guy who thought ‘Lebanese’ was just another term for lesbians.”
Bodhi choked on his drink. “He sounds like a, uh . . . special kind of guy.”
“He’s dead,” I replied, conversational as ever.
“Jesus, Iggy.” Bodhi scrubbed a hand over the back of his neck.
“What? It’s not like he was a decent person.”
He settled back, hands wrapped around his cup, watching the steam curl upward. “You never really talk about your family.”
“There’s not much to tell.”
Bodhi tilted his head. “You know about mine—”
“Sort of—”
“Tell me about yours.”
I let out a breath and leaned back too, hoping if I looked relaxed enough, my body would eventually get the memo. “I have two parents, and a younger brother, Jethro.”
Bodhi’s eyebrows arched. “I didn’t know you had a brother.”
“Well, now you do.”
“Are you close?”
Christ, he really was going to extract my life story, wasn’t he?
“Sort of,” I sighed. “We were closer when we were kids. Then I started dance, and he realised he was built for academics.”
“So you grew apart?”
I hummed. “Yeah. We weren’t best-friend siblings to begin with. We mainly bonded over our parents’ neglect.”
He frowned.
“They didn’t beat us or anything,” I added quickly. “They just . . . weren’t the kind of people who should’ve had kids.”
“What do you mean?”
“They loved us, I think, in their own warped way. They paid for the best schools, best tutors, best ballet training money could buy.” I sipped my coffee. “Jethro’s at Cambridge now, studying medicine. I think he wants to be a neurosurgeon or something brainy.”
My gaze drifted past Bodhi’s shoulder.
“Yeah . . . they loved us, in whatever limited way they were capable of. But they loved themselves more. Their careers. Their status. If you were the best, you were worth their attention. If you weren’t . . .” I gave a humourless huff. “Let’s just say I was not the favourite child.”
“They don’t really sound like nice people,” Bodhi said softly. His elbows rested on the table, and when I mirrored him, our fingers brushed.
“Nice people don’t get ahead,” I said. “That’s what they told us growing up.
They stuck me on a pedestal when I joined the Royal Ballet.
Attended every show, bragged to anyone who’d listen.
They knew every achievement.” His foot shifted under the table and brushed my ankle.
“But they didn’t know my favourite colour, my friends’ names, what ice cream flavour I liked.
They didn’t even know I was gay until they walked into my dressing room and caught me with the male lead. ”
Bodhi snorted. “I imagine that was a shock.”
“Oh, a full scandal. Especially because he was the son of one of my dad’s colleagues.” Bodhi lifted his brows. “My dad’s a Conservative MP. Proper toff. Mum’s CFO of some big global banking chain. They’re one of those horrible power couples where everything is optics.”
He nodded. “Is that why you don’t speak to them? Because they didn’t support you being gay?”
“Partly. They told me I could be ‘a fairy,’ as long as I kept it behind closed doors.” I looked down at my cup.
“There was an incident. I injured my hip and had to leave the ballet. I can’t dance at all now, actually.
And since I wasn’t the best anymore, they forgot I existed.
All their attention went to the kid who still had a future, so I went off the rails. ”
Heat crept into my cheeks. I twisted a lock of hair tighter and tighter around my finger until the skin blanched.
“I know it’s cliché. Rich kid goes wild for Mummy and Daddy’s attention. But at the time, it felt like I’d finally had everything I wanted. My dream career and my parents’ approval. Even if it was conditional. Performative.”
Bodhi’s hand covered mine, warm and grounding. His ocean-blue eyes met mine. “It’s not cliché,” he said firmly. “You wanted to matter, Iggs. It’s not your fault your parents were shitty. Everyone deserves love, and I’m sorry they didn’t give you what you needed.”
I loosened my grip on my hair, letting my hand fall. His stayed on top of it.
“They paid for my rehab, you know?” I said.
“I, um . . . overdosed . . . on Oxy. When the hospital called, they didn’t rush to my bedside like in the movies.
” I shook my head. “They didn’t even pick up the phone.
My mum’s assistant did. He sent the hospital the details of some high-end, super discreet rehab, and told them to ship me off as soon as I was stable. ”
Bodhi’s jaw clenched. “You’re not a fucking package.”
I snorted. “Well, long story short, they eventually sent a fruit basket from whatever luxury holiday they refused to interrupt, and I was couriered to the Willow, where I met you.” I turned my hand over and gave his a squeeze.
“I took their money, promised to keep the scandal quiet, and blocked their numbers. I doubt they’ve noticed. ”
Bodhi grinned at me, eyes sparkling, radiant in a way that looked suspiciously like pride.
“You’re pretty badass, Iggy Preston.”
“Not as badass as you, Bodhi Hart.”
“You’ll get there.” He winked. “You said you were injured. What—”
“Oh my god, you’re Bodhi Hart!”
A young man and woman materialised beside our table, and I yanked my hand out of Bodhi’s like it was on fire. He blinked, confused, and I gave him a tiny, guilty smile.
“Sorry,” I muttered. “Didn’t want them to get the wrong idea.”
He nodded, still frowning. But when he turned to the fans, his whole face shifted, smirk locked in, posture loose.
In half a second he’d flicked the switch from Just Bodhi to Bodhi Hart, rock star, and suddenly I wasn’t sitting across from my annoyingly charming friend anymore.
I was staring at the frontman of Noctis, human pheromone dispenser.
The girl gasped so violently her knees wobbled, and honestly? Relatable. If I were confronted with that level of sex appeal head on, I’d probably collapse like a Victorian widow too.
Christ, it was barely an hour ago I’d been fanning myself, thinking about him bending me over in some hypothetical den of debauchery . . . and here I was giving myself another semi.
For fuck’s sake.
“Hey there,” Bodhi said, cool and smooth, like he had all the time in the world.
The girl squealed at a pitch only dolphins should hear. The boy just nodded like a bobblehead doll. Part of me wanted to tell Bodhi to tone down the charisma before they passed out, but I had to admit, I was curious. I’d never seen him with fans up close.