Chapter 13 #3
When our lobster bisque arrives, he pops open the bottle of riesling, pouring a generous glass for me first, and then a lighter pour for himself.
The bisque is divine, but even if it wasn’t, I’m just glad I didn’t have to order while feeling so overwhelmed, especially after the day I’ve had.
I didn’t have to think about the social implications of what I’m ordering, or the cost, or making sure my voice is loud and steady for the waiter to hear.
This way, the waiter never even really looks at me.
I’m here, but in a way, I remain peacefully invisible, too.
It kind of feels like he’s protecting me from the world and I’ve never felt anything like it.
I’m thankful for the lightness of the bisque to start, since I haven’t eaten anything today. My stomach isn’t exactly accepting of food at first. But it’s not solid so it settles better. I’m thankful for that, even if it’s still a bit of a struggle. I’m still feeling a bit clammy with nausea.
I notice that the Irish Demon scrunches his nose up for the briefest of moments every time he takes a drink of wine, like he doesn’t like it but is trying to hide it.
Did he only order that wine because it’s what I like?
It’s strangely…sweet, that he’s willing to suffer through drinking that just for me, but I also wonder why he didn’t just get himself his own drink.
True to his world, the Irish Demon carries the conversation, and I don’t have to speak up once as I try to focus on not fidgeting and eating in a polite manner.
The two men are mostly the ones that converse, but my grandmother speaks up every now and then.
No one seems to mind that I’m not talking.
I’m not even sure my grandparents notice.
The Irish Demon’s hand moves to play with my hair every now and then, casually twirling it around his finger.
When the waiter comes to remove our plates and asks about dessert, Mr. Alasdair leans in to ask if I like chocolate.
I nod, so he orders two chocolate cakes.
Suddenly afraid of being outdone, my grandfather also orders dessert, which makes my grandmother quite happy.
At least the Irish Demon doesn’t seem like a cheapskate like my grandfather. Unless this is just a show for my sake or to outdo my grandfather. Both were possible, but I’m more inclined to think it’s the latter, since he really has no incentive to impress me.
“How soon can O’Neil meet with us?” The Irish Demon asks, and my grandfather sits back from devouring his cheesecake to think. I recognize the name as the man who owns the dock, the person who made this arranged marriage necessary.
My grandfather taps the arm of his chair, no doubt calculating his strategies.
My grandfather is threatened by the man sitting next to me.
He’s been subtly trying to one-up him the entire night.
He’s weirdly desperate to replicate him.
It’s kind of pathetic, especially since I don’t think he’s been very successful at either one.
“I have a meeting with him tomorrow morning. You can tag along if you’d like. ”
There’s a flicker of a smirk that lifts my grandfather’s lips, and I don’t really understand why.
When the Irish Demon’s eyes narrow, I know there’s something I’m missing.
What seems like a normal, polite offer, as if my grandfather is catering to his wishes, clearly is an indirect insult in some way.
The Irish Demon lifts his head high, still staring my grandfather down. “What time?”
“I told him I’d be there at eight.”
The Irish Demon wipes his mouth on the cloth napkin before folding it back in his lap. “Very well. I’ll join you.”
My grandfather’s smirk widens, and I don’t understand what’s happening here, which isn’t unusual for me, but since this situation directly affects me, I really wish I did.
As we finish the dessert, the waiter returns, hands folded neatly in front of his crisply starched black button up and dress pants. “Are we all paying together tonight? Or splitting the bill?”
My eyes nervously dart between the two men, not sure what to think about the way they’re eyeing each other. The Irish Demon clears his throat. “Splitting the bill. I’ll be taking care of my own dinner and my fiancée’s.” He gestures to me as the waiter nods.
My eyes widen a bit at how easily he claims responsibility for my meal, and thus, for me. What message does this send? What is he trying to communicate by doing this?
My grandfather looks pleased, but when the waiter returns with the bills a moment later, he huffs a little at the cost as he looks things over.
Meanwhile, the Irish Demon doesn’t even seem to look at the cost, instead, he just slips his black metal card into the bill and props it up for the waiter to take.
My grandfather’s smile is strained when the waiter gets their payments and returns shortly after, wishing us a good night.
I stand once the rest of the party does, feeling a little better after finally having eaten something, but still feeling lightheaded and ill.
It’s been five days since I found out about the Irish Demon and our engagement, and yet, it feels more like it’s been three years. And that fact makes me scared for the future.
If things were this rocky and traumatizing already, how much worse will it get? It’s a thought that makes my stomach curdle even more.