Chapter 25
LYRIC
This day has dragged on, and I know exactly why. If this is Waylon’s idea of keeping it casual, I fear we may need to sit down and discuss the parameters more thoroughly. Because a date where I have to wear a dress like this, well, I don’t think it qualifies.
I keep reminding myself that he said he just wants me to experience it, and he wants it to be with someone who’s not concerned with getting into my pants. Like a good friend would.
But about three seconds ago, I had a realization. I spend a lot of time wondering how Waylon feels, reminding myself what he’s said in the past. And I’ve been learning to accept people at face value.
I had a string of relationships some years ago, and I would constantly tell myself that they didn’t mean what they said, and that their actions proved they loved me.
For example, I dated a drummer from this band I can’t even remember the name of.
He used to tell me that he didn’t want a commitment, didn’t want to settle down, but then he was over at my place literally all the time.
When I began to believe he had a change of heart, I asked him to move in with me, and that’s when he reminded me about all the times he told me he would never do that.
That’s when I told myself I would absolutely never read between any lines with a guy.
If he says it, that’s what it is. And Waylon has said this is just sex and friendship.
And I think I finally made peace with that, because I had this wonderful moment of clarity where I just saw Waylon as my very good friend.
It’s not like the romantic feelings go away, trust me.
They’re still wreaking havoc on my nervous system.
But I can set them aside and accept this reality.
I can just enjoy tonight for exactly what it is.
I smooth the dress under my palms as I take a final look in the mirror. I tuck my clutch under my elbow and twist to look at my backside. Not too shabby.
This dress must’ve been purchased like six years ago now, but it still fits like a glove. I guess my body hasn’t changed much. Aside from when I tried it on in the store, I haven’t worn it. I didn’t even have a reason to buy it. It was just so pretty; I couldn’t leave it there.
It’s practically a slip—silky black material with thin little straps. But then there’s a layer of dark blue tulle on top, with silvery stitches scattered all over. It reminds me of the night sky full of stars.
The doorbell rings throughout the house, and my lips curl up at the corners. I cannot believe Waylon is ringing his own doorbell to keep this authentic. I run into the closet to grab my black pashmina in case it’s cold out later and then head to the front door.
I take a very deep breath, calming myself before I see him. I pull the door open and lose all control of my facial expressions. My jaw is slack, and when I look down to see where it fell, I’m met with shiny shoes. They’re polished to perfection.
Speaking of perfection, Waylon’s suit fits so well, I want to cry. He’s trimmed all the hair from his neck, and his hair is lightly slicked back. I’ve never seen him like this. I imagine it’s what he’ll look like at the wedding, too, which makes me incredibly happy.
He smiles at me, shifting his weight from one leg to the other as he leans in and presses a chaste kiss to my lips.
“Hello, darlin’,” he says, holding out a bouquet of dark red roses.
“Thank you.” I take them into my arms as I inhale their lovely but familiar scent. “I have this rose oil at work that I sometimes dab under my nose when I’m working. It helps mask the smell of death.”
“Whoa,” he laughs nervously.
“I’m sorry, that was such a terrible thing to say out loud.” I laugh under my breath, realizing this may have been part of the reason Darcy told me I needed a roommate. I really do forget how to talk to people sometimes.
“No, it’s fine. It surprised me a little, but it’s really fine. You should be able to say whatever you want in front of me. Or anyone, for that matter. If they care about you, they’ll accept it as part of who you are.”
He holds out his arm to me, so I set the flowers down inside and loop my hand over his forearm.
“You look gorgeous, by the way,” he says, as he opens the truck door for me.
“Thank you. So do you. You look handsome, I mean.”
“Oh no, I’m gorgeous, you said it yourself.”
I laugh as he shuts my door. I don’t know where we’re going at all, and when I think of the fancy restaurants in the city, there are quite a few to choose from.
But I know Waylon well enough to know it’s going to be delicious.
I didn’t eat lunch today just so I could be good and hungry when we arrived.
We pull out onto the road and he turns on some music but keeps the volume low.
Still, neither of us finds a need for words.
The sun is setting in front of us, casting everything in an orange glow.
It’s almost as if we’re driving right into it for a little while, until we get onto the highway toward downtown.
When we arrive, Waylon steps around the truck and opens the door for me.
He hands his keys to a valet and walks me into Saffron Bistro.
And let’s just say my flabbers are ghasted because I thought this place was impossible to get into.
At least in this calendar year. Last I heard, there was a solid six-month waitlist, and I would have assumed it got worse after that.
“How did you get us into this place on such short notice?” I whisper.
Waylon cocks his head to the side, acting more smug than usual. God, if he wasn’t so hot that would be so annoying.
“I’m a man of many secrets and lots of connections,” he says, grabbing his lapel.
I roll my eyes, giving him the universal look for “cut the crap” and nudge my elbow into his ribs.
“You know, most of our tattoo clients are pretty cool people. Some of them are firefighters, others are realtors, and some are even chefs at fancy places, who are happy to accommodate you at the last minute,” he says, shrugging his shoulders.
I watch him give his name to the hostess, who perks up when she realizes who he is. She leads us to a secluded table in the corner.
Waylon pulls out my chair and tucks it back in as I sit.
The waiter lights the candle in the center of the table, as he tells us his name is Ben and offers a wine list. Waylon takes it from him, which is good because I know nothing about wine unless it’s white and costs nine dollars for the whole bottle.
I look down at the food menu and gulp. There are no prices listed beside anything. How do people order? Just as I begin to internally panic, Waylon’s foot presses up against mine, and all the buzzing just dissipates.
Waylon points to a wine selection, Ben nods and leaves, and I’m wondering if the chicken is the cheapest thing on the menu like at most places.
“So, what looks good to you?” he asks, beginning to look down at the menu.
“Uh, I’m not sure.” My eyes scan the options. The dishes are limited, which I know is a normal thing for a place like this. I want to remark about the lack of prices, but I’m worried that will make me look even less experienced than I already do.
“Angelo tells me the steak is his proudest creation. It’s sliced thin over a bed of pasta with herbs and parmesan and some kind of pesto stuff on top,” he says.
“Who’s Angelo?”
“Oh, sorry, that’s the chef,” he says with a laugh. “So, you know, I trust his opinion.”
“Is that what you’re getting?”
“Probably,” he says, tilting his head back and forth. “He also tells me really good things about the lobster tail. It’s brushed in butter and garlic and served with truffle mashed potatoes.”
Fuck, those both sound delicious. I’m hungry enough that I feel like I could eat both.
“Hey, I think I have a brilliant idea,” he says, leaning in close. “How about we share?”
Does he mean share our meal? Like just order one? Shit, he must be panicking about the prices, too. But he’d never say so.
“Sure, I’m not that hungry, anyway. Which one do you want to get?”
Waylon narrows his eyes at me, looking utterly confused. But the moment it dawns on him what it is I’m saying, his face softens and a little grin punctuates his expression.
“Lyric, I’m in no way what anyone would call rich, but I do make a very good living and I don’t buy a lot of unnecessary shit. And I would never, under any circumstances, have brought you here if I was worried about pinching my pennies,” he says before taking a breath.
He reaches across the table and takes my hand into his. His fingers play with the silver band around my thumb, twisting it as he sighs.
“I meant, what if we order the steak dish and the lobster dish and share them with each other?” he asks.
His clarifying statement hits me like a purse full of bricks to the face. I feel so dumb, I’m sure my face is an abnormal shade of pink.
Ben decides this is a good time to bring us our wine. He makes a fancy spectacle of opening it and letting Waylon sniff the cork. He puts a very small amount into a glass, then swishing it around as he hands it over for Waylon to taste.
Once Waylon has approved, he proceeds to pour two full glasses and places them in front of us. For Ben’s next trick, he produces an ice bucket on its own stand and places it next to the table for the bottle to rest in.
“May I take your order now?” Ben asks.
Waylon looks over at me, the question of sharing still written in his features. I give him a little nod, signaling I’m on board, and he winks back at me.
I notice Ben listens and asks questions but doesn’t write anything down, which is impressive considering I can walk from my bedroom to the kitchen and forget what I went in there for.
Once we’re alone at the table again, I look around and take in the ambience.
There are plush emerald green tapestries, highlighted with golden yellow accents.
From the seating to the tablecloths, to the waitstaff’s uniforms, everything is coordinated and intentional.
The low lighting and gold candelabras cast a wonderfully romantic atmosphere.
When the food comes, Waylon moves the plates so they’re side by side and equal distance between us.
I bite into the lobster first, nearly weeping at how it melts in my mouth. When I try the steak next, I find it equally mouthwatering. I really thought I’d be able to pick a favorite, but it’s impossible. “We should come eat this every week.”
“Sure thing,” he says, stuffing a forkful of pasta into his mouth. “I’ll mortgage the house, we’ll live in a box, but we’ll eat like royalty for a while.”
We eat and talk—eventually about more than the food—and Waylon pours more wine. A dessert menu never appears, but two slices of decadent cheesecake topped with chocolate shavings and berries are delivered by Ben.
“Chef Angelo sends his regards,” he says, then turns and leaves without saying anything else.
I look at Waylon, who’s wearing a little surprise on his face as well.
“Wow, you have nice friends.” I laugh, grabbing my fork without wasting any time. The first bite hits my tongue with an explosion of flavor. It’s so creamy and perfectly balanced with notes of vanilla. I wiggle in my chair and look over to see if Waylon is having the same experience.
He’s staring at me with an amused twinkle in his eyes. It causes me to stop chewing for a moment as I look around.
“What?”
“Nothing. You just look cute,” he says.
My cheeks warm as his words melt into a blissful smile. Oh my. He licks his bottom lip, his expression turning a little darker.
“We should hurry,” he says, running his thumb over his mouth. “I need to get you home.”