CHAPTER NINETEEN – A DATE AT THE RESTAURANT
Talon
If you want to know what hell actually feels like, try waiting outside a crowded Italian restaurant in a college town when the woman you love is late. Is Kat going to show? Or am I going to be left on the sidewalk like discarded trash?
Every couple walking past is locked into their own romantic reverie, making me feel even more desperate.
I check my phone for the third time—no texts, no missed calls, just a home screen full of unread news alerts and the nervous thrum of my own reflection in the glass.
I look like I’m trying too hard to seem normal: black jeans, blue button-down, the sleeves rolled and the cuffs just uneven enough to say “I’m not overthinking this.
” I am, obviously. My hands are so dry I could sand wood with them.
I fumble with the collar, tug it down, then do it again because my heart is hammering against my ribs and nothing on this side of tequila is going to slow it.
The inside of the restaurant glows warm through the windows, all candles and red and white checkered tablecloths.
I can see the old Italian lady at the hostess stand, fussing with her iPad, and I’m already rehearsing what I’m going to say when Kat shows up. If she shows up.
A woman walks up the street, her head down in the collar of a blue coat.
She moves elegantly, like a sylph—shoulders back, hips swinging with metronomic grace.
I know it’s Kat before I see her features.
I’d know the tilt of her jaw or the gloss of golden hair anywhere.
She slows on the sidewalk, takes a breath, and looks up.
It hits me all over again, the way it did in the bookstore: Katherine Vreeland is beautiful.
Not the surface-level, Instagram-influencer kind, but the sort that makes you ache in your bones.
Her hair is loose, gold catching in the streetlight, and she’s wearing a dress I’ve never seen—a soft gray thing that clings to her curves and stops just above the knee.
For a second, I forget what my mouth is for.
She spots me and smiles shyly before approaching.
“Hey,” she says, tucking a strand behind her ear. She’s not wearing much makeup, maybe none at all, but her lips are bitten red and her eyes look enormous.
I smile, but it probably looks more like a grimace. “Hey yourself. You look—” My brain catches on the word. “—really good.”
“Thanks,” she murmurs, with a snort that says she doesn’t believe it. “You too.”
I grin. A flash of teeth—a real smile. My nerves pop like a soap bubble. I open the door for her, and we slide inside.
The hostess is five feet tall, wearing a black cardigan with the restaurant logo embroidered in gold script over her left breast. “Name?” she asks, scanning the crowd behind us.
“McKnight,” I say. “Reservation for two.”
The old lady glances at her iPad, then leads us past a double row of booths, the tables jammed with college kids and silver-haired professors alike, all of them gesturing wildly or shouting over the Frank Sinatra soundtrack.
I catch a few stares, but nothing unusual.
Kat keeps her eyes straight ahead, her hand brushing mine for a second, then gone.
The hostess deposits us in a corner booth—red leather, checkered tablecloth, a candle.
“Enjoy,” she says, and I catch a whiff of her perfume, something powdery and grandmotherly that lingers as she floats away.
I slide in, trying not to stare as Kat unbuttons her coat and shrugs it off, folding it over the back of the seat.
Her dress is simple but devastating, the fabric hugging her waist and cupping her bust with a loving precision that makes my ears buzz.
I watch her fidget with the menu, tucking her hair behind her ear again, and realize that I’ve missed every one of her nervous tics.
She glances up. “You okay? You’re staring.”
“Just—” I start, but the words evaporate. “I wasn’t sure you’d actually show.”
She smiles sweetly. “Me either. But I figured you’d do something dramatic if I stood you up. Like send a food basket to my apartment. Or egg my car.”
I laugh, and the tension between us cracks, just a little. “I’m more a passive-aggressive email guy. You’d have gotten at least three ‘per my last email’ communications before midnight.”
Her lips twitch, and she looks down at the menu. “I have a friend who can trace IPs. Don’t try me.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I say, but now my eyes are stuck on the side of her neck, the little spot where the skin dips and pulses.
I want to taste it, to run my tongue over the scar she told me was from a childhood bike crash.
Instead, I unfold my own menu and pretend to be very interested in the pasta section.
The waiter shows up, pencil tucked behind his ear. “Drinks?” he asks, notepad at the ready.
Kat doesn’t hesitate. “Cabernet, please. House is fine.”
“Old Fashioned,” I say, and he nods, already gone.
I watch her scan the appetizers. “You ever been here before?” she asks, not quite meeting my eyes.
I shake my head. “No, but I googled it. Best lasagna in a hundred-mile radius. Or so they say.”
She huffs, amused. “Who’s they?”
I lean in, dropping my voice. “Yelp. The true arbiters of taste.”
Kat giggles and gives me a sidelong look. “You know, it’s weird seeing you like this, Talon. Not, like, in a flannel and writing cave. You almost look like a different person.”
I feign offense. “I’ll have you know this shirt was a gift from my publicist. She said it would make me seem more ‘approachable.’”
“Does it?”
I shrug. “You tell me.”
The golden girl studies me for a second, her gaze flicking down to my hands, up to my mouth, then back to my eyes. “Yes. Maybe.”
The drinks arrive, the waiter setting them down with a flourish. Kat sips hers, eyes over the rim, and I want to ask her what she’s thinking, but I know better. The wine stains her lips a deeper red.
We order, trading food choices with the easy banter of two people who already know each other’s worst habits.
She giggles when I order a salad as an appetizer (“I know you don’t like salad”), and I tease her about the way she says “bruschetta” like a Food Network host. The waiter disappears with our menus, and for a minute the world seems to settle.
I lean back, relaxing for the first time all day. “Thank you for coming, Kat,” I say, more serious than I intend.
She shrugs, lightly smoothing the condensation on her wine glass. “Figured it was time. You already know everything about me anyway. Or at least, you wrote it down.”
Oof. I wince, but she softens the blow with a smile. “Sorry. That was uncalled for.”
I shake my head. “No, you’re right. I did. And I’m sorry, again, for everything.”
She looks away, out the window, where the streetlights glaze the sidewalk in gold. “You know, the funny part is I read the book a second time. Just to see if I could learn more.”
I hold my breath.
“Did you?”
She nods.
“A little,” she says, the words coming carefully. “I started seeing it more as fiction, and less as a diary. Like the heroine is someone else—”
“No,” I interrupt, “She’s not. I wanted you to see what I saw. That you’re the most beautiful, caring, intelligent, most infuriating woman I’ve ever met.”
Kat shoots me a lopsided smile. “Careful. I might start believing you.”
The drinks work their magic. By the time the salads arrive, we’re talking easily and teasing each other.
I’m grateful because I wasn’t sure I’d ever have this with Kat again.
I thought that maybe, we were too far gone and I’d fucked up, but our easy conversation gives me hope.
We swap stories about terrible childhood pets (hers: a hamster named Hamlet who lasted a single week; mine: a rescue cat who peed on all my manuscripts), the weirdest things we’ve ever eaten (her: deep-fried pickles at the state fair; me: raw octopus in Tokyo), and the time I almost got banned from Twitter for flaming a food critic who didn’t like bourbon.
She laughs, for real, when I tell the story. “You know, your agent emailed me,” she says, out of nowhere. “Jonah, I think his name is.”
I nearly spit my drink. “What?”
“He said you were thinking about going off grid again. Asked if I’d heard from you. I told him you were probably just out in the woods, thinking big thoughts.”
I groan. “That man is the worst. But also, he’s probably outside right now, waiting for me to slip up so he can yell at me about deadlines. I can’t believe he contacted you though. What the fuck.”
She laughs again, and it’s like music. My pulse slows, my head clears. I want to freeze the moment, just soak in the way she glows in the restaurant’s cheap candlelight.
Then, right before the main course arrives, a woman approaches our booth. She’s maybe twenty-two, hair in a messy topknot, glasses perched low on her nose. She clutches a hardcover copy of Angel’s Share to her chest like a holy text. I recognize the look instantly—fan, probably from the reading.
“Um, excuse me,” she says, glancing at Kat, then back at me. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but are you Talon McKnight?”
I nod, and Kat’s whole body tenses beside me.
The girl’s cheeks go pink. “Oh my god, I knew it. I was at your reading at Century Pages. Your book is, like, everything. Would you mind signing my copy?”
I smile, take the pen she offers. My signature is a mess, but I scrawl it on the title page, then hand it back.
She beams. “Thank you! And, um, is this—” she gestures to Kat, “—your girlfriend?”
There’s a pause. The world seems to go dead quiet. I look at Kat, unsure if I should say yes, but she just arches an eyebrow, challenging.
“Yes,” I say, and it feels both dangerous and true. “She is.”
The girl squeals, but then, reading the moment, dials it down. “You two are adorable. Sorry again for interrupting. Enjoy your dinner!” She scurries off, the book hugged tight.
I turn to Kat, but her eyes are on her plate.
“You okay?” I ask, voice low.