Chapter 17 #3
I take my time to look around, noticing couples cozying up together in booths, clinking glasses in celebration of one occasion or another.
I spot one couple actually sharing a spaghetti noodle à la Lady and the Tramp.
I bite my lip to hold in my laugh. It’s cute in theory, but I find the notion of sharing food that close to someone else’s mouth kind of gross.
I sip my wine and listen to the soft classical music playing in the dining area.
I check my phone again and see no further texts from Jude even though almost fifteen minutes have passed since he told me he’d be coming. I take a grounding breath. Some of that time is allotted for travel, and there might be traffic; it happens.
Lorenzo comes back around with a more tentative smile. “Still waiting on someone?” he asks gently, but pointedly. I try not to let it get to me.
I wave my phone a little. “He said he’s on his way,” I offer.
Lorenzo’s smile never dips, “I’m sure he is.” He refills my water glass with a flourish and saunters away.
Another fifteen minutes go by and without something to eat or do with my hands I’ve had about two-thirds of my wine already. I sigh a little louder than expected but turn when I hear someone walking up behind me. A big hand falls on my shoulder. Big, but not as giant as Andre’s.
“I’m so glad you waited for me.” Jude’s low voice sounds next to my ear.
The heat of his breath sends a little shiver down my back distracting me, but not enough to totally dissuade my annoyance.
He swings around, placing himself in his seat with a big movie star grin on his face.
Lorenzo immediately pops up out of nowhere and fills Jude’s water.
“My father’s clients wouldn’t settle over a debate we’ve been at for days.” He shakes his head as if I know anything about his father or what business he does. I nod along anyway.
“Lorenzo! My favourite server, I’ll have my usual. Celly?” He looks up at me and suddenly I’m flustered having not gone over the menu in my alone time.
“Um…” I flip through the two page spread, quickly reading over the pasta dishes. I spare a glance up to Lorenzo’s waiting expression, “I’m sorry,” I look down and select the first thing I see off the menu, “I’ll have the risotto, please,” I say quickly, handing my menu to Lorenzo’s extended hand.
“Everything will be out shortly, Mr. Havenston,” Lorenzo croons, before whisking away to the kitchen.
“So, Mr. Havenston, I have to say I—” I start, but Jude cuts me off.
“You look gorgeous this evening, by the way,” he drawls, taking a long sip from a glass of wine I didn’t even see him receive.
I look down at my pink dress. A V-neckline shows off my mediocre cleavage with a delicate scalloped edge.
The skirt flares out slightly and I smooth my hands over the thin material.
“Thank you. You look great yourself,” I say looking over his attire. A fitted suit, no doubt custom made, showing off his toned physique. His blond hair looks straight out of a glossy magazine cover.
“Thanks, it’s my favourite Armani,” he says, his tone less smooth and more braggy.
Whatever. If I had Armani, I guess I’d show it off too.
He rambles on for several minutes, dropping more designer names, like Prada and Louis Vuitton, then glances at me to check my reaction to his clothing preferences.
In my humbly poor opinion, if you can afford it, buy whatever you want.
However, I’m more impressed with someone who has great taste in food rather than designer labels.
“So what is your usual order?” I ask, but before he can answer, our meals are placed before us, piping hot. My eyes shift to Chef Angelo who’s smiling and waving to Jude.
“Do you know him?” I ask.
Jude huffs a laugh, “Not personally, but my Dad has done some business for him. What do your parents do?” The question hangs in the air and I try not to let it catch me off guard.
He doesn’t know your history, he doesn’t know about Dad. Just be cool.
“Oh, well my Mom stays at home and my Dad travels for work,” I say, shoving risotto into my mouth hoping he doesn’t pry further. My mouth is on fire, but better burnt than babbling on about a missing father figure and a traumatic childhood.
“Nice. Yeah my Mom likes to redecorate our estates every season, it keeps her busy.” His tone rubs me the wrong way but I, once again, shake it off.
Take chances, Celeste.
“That’s nice, where is your estate?” I ask out of mild curiosity before blowing on a new forkful. I almost groan as the heat subsides and the flavour kicks in.
Is that truffle I taste?!
“Estate-s. Multiple,” he corrects me, his inflection flipping from casual to stern so swiftly my focus shoots up to his.
“The first one, here in Canada, is over three acres and backs on to…” Jude continues talking but I’m starting to zone out.
He continues rambling on about his second estate somewhere in Colorado where his Dad’s business is located.
“…just designed a whole new second level at the summer house on Lake Como,” Jude finishes and I feel like I’ve just heard a spiel from a Sotheby’s real estate agent.
Everything rings in my mind in dollar signs, and I suddenly feel small in my chair.
I pat my napkin to my mouth and take the final sip I’ve savoured from my glass.
“Celly? Did you hear me? I said we should go sometime,” Jude repeats himself, indicating I clearly missed him the first time. He displays a smile so big and bright I expect paparazzi to pop out from the kitchen to photograph him.
“I’m sorry, the risotto has gone to my head. Go where?” I ask with a small placating smile.
“To Lake Como. I’ll take you during winter break this year.” His teeth are so white, they cannot be natural.
“You want me to go to Italy with you?” I ask perplexed. Then he shrugs. Shrugs. “Jude, I don’t mean to be blunt, but we’re in very different tax brackets. Also, you barely know me.”
He chuckles while holding the stem of his wine glass, swirling it before tossing it back.
“Celly, you don’t have to be anything. When you’re with me, everything is covered.” I’m sure he means it reassuringly, but to me it comes off as, well, pompous.
Suddenly, I see his demeanour in a new light.
He’s leaning back in his chair, legs spread wide while barely noticing as Lorenzo refills his glass with a wine I’m sure costs more than my textbooks for the semester.
He’s also staring at me like I’m a piece of meat.
A conquest. A flighty thing that doesn’t have to be anything.
All the little red flags I had brushed aside for the past hour are abruptly, glaringly red.
Before I can excuse myself from the table, Chef Angelo makes an appearance beside us, Lorenzo still a step behind him at Jude’s beck and call.
“Good evening, Mr. Havenston. How are you enjoying the food tonight?” he asks politely, shooting me dagger eyes when Jude isn’t looking.
I didn’t order that sardine disaster, buddy.
“The veal was a little over done, my guy,” Jude pats Chef Angelo on the shoulder like a kid at a soccer match that missed a goal, “Don’t get rusty in your old age.” Jude’s laugh fills the awkward silence I feel. I turn to the chef to try and make amends.
“My risotto was exquisite, the best I’ve ever had,” I say as sincerely as possible.
Chef Angelo looks me over with squinted eyes, “Yes, well…” He turns back to Jude, “I’m sorry we couldn’t meet your expectations tonight Mr. Havenston.
With your displeasure, please consider your meals this evening complimentary.
” Chef Angelo bows his head slightly at Jude, who looks like he’s getting off on all this.
In a flourish, Jude and I are alone at our table again.
He’s looking at me with a grin on his face like a cat that just ate the mouse.
He gives a simple shrug and winks at me.
I hold in my eye roll with the strength of a thousand Zena Warrior Princesses.
Jude may be a walking Ken doll with Daddy’s money to throw—not to mention a vacation house in Italy—but he is also entirely naive about me.
He didn’t ask me a single question about myself, what I’m studying, or if I even like Italy.
All I want at this moment is to…I pause mid-thought.
What do I want to be doing right now?
Memories of laughing at the coffee counter with Dominic fly through my mind, watching TV on his couch, getting ice cream…
I feel an unexpected flush take over, my cheeks heating at the memories of Dominic. They are far from scandalous but somehow feel intimate. Too intimate while on a date with another guy, even if he is a pretentious douche.
As Jude begins to slink an arm into his tailored jacket sleeve, I flag down Lorenzo and ask if I can order another round of risotto to bring home, to which I receive an eye roll and a snooty, “You’ll have to pay for that.” I pull out my card and wait for him to return with the machine.
“Oh. You’re getting more food?” Jude asks looking up from his phone, already standing with his coat on. I swear if it doesn’t concern him, he isn’t aware of it.
“Yeah, my mom would love this dish and I don’t think she’s eaten yet, so I thought I’d bring some home for her,” I say, tapping my card as Lorenzo barely stops long enough at our table for me to pay.
“Well I’ve got to run. My dad said his clients are finally ready to make a decision about the transfer. I’ll see you around?”
“Yeah no problem, thank you for dinner,” I say cordially, standing up to give him a handshake as his arms splay open for a hug.
We shift awkwardly, his arm coming around too tightly on my neck.
My left hand braces against his waist, the other stuck between us in a claw shape.
It is all very pre-teen and makes me want to cringe.
I sit back down as Jude walks away. Only then do I realize I don’t have a ride home.
Lorenzo practically tosses me a brown bag and shoos me out of the table.
I pull my phone out and call Delaney.
* * *
“Get in, loser, we’re…getting you home safe!” Delaney yells from the open window of the driver’s seat. I chuckle and push off from the side of the building wall beside Andre.
“Great reference attempt, Lane,” I snort. I scoot into the passenger’s side and flop into the seat, the brown bag resting atop my lap.
“Hey Andre! What’s this I hear about you going to Les Mis without me?” Delaney yells out past me through the window to where Andre stands sentry.
“I’ll get you tickets Ms. Beatty,” is all he says, dipping his chin at her. She returns the gesture ominously before rolling the window up.
“I’m sorry, what the fuck was that?” I ask. Delaney takes off towards my house, waving me off.
“Ah, he helps make some of the set pieces for the campus theatre. He’s my ticket hook up. I got front row for Wicked last year. It was unreal.”
“As long as no one gets whacked for those tickets,” I mutter darkly.
“Whacked for Wicked,” Delaney says imitating Andre in a deep voice, making us burst out laughing.