CHAPTER NINETEEN – A DATE AT THE RESTAURANT #2
She’s quiet for a long second, then shrugs. “I didn’t know people approached you out of the blue in real life.”
I reach across the table, cover her hand with mine. “I’m only famous for very niche things. Like writing romantic tales about beautiful women in the woods.”
She laughs, but it’s a little sad. “Still, it’s weird. Like, everywhere you go, there’s a chance someone recognizes you. I can’t compete with that.”
I squeeze her hand. “I don’t want you to compete. I want you to be yourself.”
She looks at me, and for a second I see the old vulnerability, the unfiltered Kat. “It just sucks sometimes. Knowing you’re the fantasy for a lot of women. And I’m what? Your muse? The girl on the page?”
“No,” I say, maybe too loud. “You’re not just the girl on the page. You’re the whole fucking book.”
Kat’s eyes glisten, but she blinks it away. “That was so cheesy, Talon. Like, peak cheese.”
I grin. “I stand by it. You’re everything to me, Katherine. I really mean it.”
The food arrives, and we dig in. Every now and then, the curvy girl looks like she’s about to speak, but she keeps glancing at me, like she’s waiting for the other shoe to drop.
Halfway through the tiramisu, she says, “You know, I never asked. What happens in the sequel?”
I take a bite, savoring the sweetness. “I haven’t written it yet.”
She leans forward, her voice low. “What if the main character leaves the guy? Goes to grad school, and starts her own life?”
I nod slowly, my heart thumping. I knew this was coming, and have an answer prepared.
“Then I guess the guy has to find a way to win her back. Maybe he shows up at her door with a thousand apologies. Or maybe he just lets her go, because that’s what she needs.
If you love someone, then set them free. It’s an old adage, but true.”
Kat considers that, picking at the cake with her fork. “You’d really let her go?”
I nod, slowly. “If it made her happy. Yeah.”
She looks at me, blue eyes searching. “You’re not very good at playing the possessive alpha male who shackles the heroine in his cave, are you?”
“Never claimed to be,” I say. “But I am good at writing about one.”
She laughs, the sound soft and genuine.
And then, as I reach for the check, a shadow falls across our table. I look up, and squint. Who is this woman? Another fan? She’s blonde and bossy, and staring daggers at me.
“Simone!” Kat gasps with surprise. “What are you doing here?”
The woman’s in a black turtleneck and a pair of jeans so tight they look painted on.
Her hair is in a perfect ponytail, her eyes glittering with the kind of mischief that means someone’s about to get called out.
She slides into the booth next to Kat, nearly shoving the curvy girl out of her seat with the force of her entrance.
“Evening, folks,” Simone says, folding her arms. “Sorry I’m late. Was finishing up an assignment.”
Kat’s jaw drops. “Simone, what the hell? Why are you here? You can’t just crash my date!”
“No, it’s fine,” I say in an even tone. “We were just finishing up anyways.”
Simone turns to me, and for a second I think she’s going to start the Spanish Inquisition. Sure enough, she gives me a slow, sly smile. “You know, for a supposed asshole, you’re very kind. Thank you for welcoming me.”
I shrug. “I was speaking the truth. We were leaving anyways.”
Simone laughs, then gestures for the waiter, ordering a glass of wine without looking at the menu.
The three of us sit in silence for a beat, then Simone leans in, voice low. “I have three questions, Talon McKnight. Answer carefully because Kat’s already told me everything so I’ll know if you’re disseminating.”
Kat gasps but Simone waves her hand, silencing her friend.
I nod, bracing.
“One: Are you going to hurt Kat again?”
I shake my head. “Not if I can help it. I’m in this for real.”
Simone nods with satisfaction.
“Two: Are you using this dinner as research for your next book?”
I shake my head. “Not unless I get explicit consent.”
Simone grins, like a shark. “Good. Three: When are you going to tell Kat you’re afraid of the dark?”
I blink, startled. “How did you—”
Kat giggles meanwhile. “Simone! Seriously?”
The blonde girl shrugs, innocent. “Just wanted to make sure your so-called boyfriend isn’t a complete robot.”
I can’t help but laugh, the embarrassment somehow purifying. “Fine. I sleep with a nightlight sometimes. Sue me.”
Simone softens, just a fraction. “Good. That means you’re human. I approve.”
Kat looks at me, then at Simone, then back at me. “You two are unbelievable.”
I lift my glass. “To questionable decisions and the people who love us anyway.”
Simone snorts, but Kat clinks her glass to mine. “To sequels,” she says.
And in that moment, with the taste of sugar and wine and the sound of laughter hanging in the air, I realize that maybe, just maybe, we’re all ready to write a better story this time.
Simone gets up and disappears, saying something about meeting up with a professor, before I turn to Kat with a smile.
“That’s your friend?” I ask, black brows raised.
Kat smiles ruefully.
“She’s a handful, isn’t she? But Simone only wants the best for me. Sorry she crashed our date.”
I shake my head.
“No, I’m glad, sweetheart. I’m happy to know you have protectors all around, looking out for your welfare.”
Kat shoots me an arch look.
“But I have more than one protector,” she says.
I look her in the eye.
“Yes of course. Me, sweetheart. I’m always on your side.”
The golden girl shakes her head.
“No, someone else. Are you ready to meet him?”
My mind swirls because there’s another man in Kat’s life? Who? I hope to god it’s her dad or brother because god knows, I’ll kill any man who lays a finger on my beautiful woman. She’s mine. She belongs to me. Kat just hasn’t figured it out yet.
My girlfriend’s invited me to meet her other “protector,” and I have to say I’m not looking forward to this because the situation isn’t great.
There’s something diabolical about the way college classrooms smell: cold coffee, melting backpack plastic, and the anxious sweat of two hundred undergrads who know their parents are going into debt so they can tune out on TikTok.
I’m sitting in the back row of Emerson 201, a lecture hall designed by a sadist with a protractor and a grudge against the lumbar spine, watching Kat in the front row as she fills a legal pad with notes at 2x speed.
Her handwriting is ferocious—tiny, upright, each line a parade of exclamation marks and sarcastic margin comments.
I can’t see her face, but every so often I catch the angle of her chin as she turns toward the podium, hair gold in the morning sun, and my chest hurts with a weird, fizzy affection that is at once pride, longing, and the faint terror that she could turn around and catch me staring.
Up front, Professor Avery holds court. He’s a decrepit old man, a full head of frizzy grey hair, with a voice pitched somewhere between “gentle grandfather” and “final boss of a debate team.” He wears the required uniform for his species—tweed jacket, faded oxford, an actual pocket watch on a chain—and as he paces the width of the stage, he speaks in perfectly modulated paragraphs.
He never once looks at his notes. If I had to write a character based on him, I’d call it overkill, but real life doesn’t care about clichés.
The subject is “Narrative Ethics: When Does Inspiration Become Theft?” and the whole room is hanging on Avery’s every word.
He paces like a caged wolf, gesturing with his spectacles, each step a precise metronome.
“Writers,” he intones, “are cannibals. We devour life. The ethical question is: when does our hunger violate the body of another?” He scans the crowd, eyes bright.
“When does the homage become an autopsy?”
A girl in a pea-green beanie raises her hand, voice quivering as she asks, “Isn’t everything basically stolen from someone else? Isn’t that the whole point of literature?”
Avery beams, delighted. “Very good. All art is theft, Miss Rodriguez. But there’s theft, and then there’s sacrilege. If I rewrite your life in my own image—if I expose your pain, your desire, your most intimate secrets—do I honor you? Or do I merely take what I want, consequences be damned?”
He lets the question dangle, then gives the faintest of shrugs. “It is the burden of all storytellers. But the best ones know what is theirs to take, and what must remain sacred.”
My eyes drift to Kat. She’s still scribbling, but her hand slows.
The words up front aren’t just an academic puzzle to her—they land like pebbles dropped into a well, each one sending out a ripple that hits us both.
I’d like to think I’m the only man here arrogant enough to recognize himself in Avery’s lecture, but I know better.
When class ends, the exodus is brutal. Students stampede for the exits, leaving a trail of coffee cups and crumpled notes. Kat hangs back, packing up slow. I linger at the top of the stairs, waiting until the room is mostly empty before descending.
She looks up when she hears my footsteps, a small smile curving her lips. “Did you get anything out of that?”
“Other than some quotes?” I say, taking the seat next to her. “Yeah. He’s good.”
She snorts. “He’s a maniac. He once threw a copy of Oedipus Rex at a kid who used ChatGPT for a paper.”
I like my woman when she’s like this—at ease, making fun of the world, unselfconscious about how smart she is. I want to reach for her hand, but I settle for nudging her knee under the table.
She closes her notebook, then turns to me. “You going to introduce yourself, or just skulk in the back like a serial killer?”
I glance toward the podium. Avery is packing up, but moving slow, like he knows someone’s waiting to pounce.
“Would it be weird?” I ask, and Kat laughs.
“You’re the King of Weird. Go.”
So I do, as my woman vanishes with a wink over her shoulder.