Chapter 29
Nothing screams today was fucked like a massive chicken parm, so when Ash asked for my vote back at the hospital, the site of my first Zola date was the restaurant that came to mind.
It’s not like I made any particularly fond memories at Antonio’s the first time around that demanded preserving.
But as I cross the parking lot, I realize that that’s not entirely true.
Ro’s everywhere out here. His phantom truck might as well be parked at the curb, waiting for my mezcal-laden ass to teeter out in need of a getaway driver. He didn’t have to volunteer for the role, but he did. Because he’s Ro.
Shit, I think, for the second time since leaving him on read. This is bad.
And suddenly my little black romper that had felt simple and effortless is too short and too tight and too everything.
Any shot that’s a good enough excuse to cancel on Ash?
No. I’m being stupid. I’m not doing anything wrong. Ro and I aren’t together. With the exception of tonight, we’d barely even spoken these past couple weeks. And he knows I agreed to these dates.
It’s all completely true.
It also does absolutely nothing to assuage the solid brick of guilt lodged firmly in my gut as I walk inside.
—
“So,” Ash says as we wait for a table, “this place as good as the old Pizza Shoppe?”
“Oh my god,” I say, relieved that my smile makes it momentarily impossible to continue gnawing the inside of my lip raw. “I forgot about the Pizza Shoppe! That weird mayonnaise they called salad dressing.”
Ash’s grimace is entirely appropriate when he says, “The pink stuff.”
“The pink stuff! God, that place was amazing.”
I’d imagine there are likely entire textbooks devoted to the physiological effects of ingesting mayo-slathered pepperoni “salads” biweekly for four years, but Ash’s face is still shifting to consider it.
Finally, he lands on a smile and says, “I’d still fuck it up.”
We’re both laughing when the hostess returns, beaming at the happy couple, before leading us through the familiar candlelit dining room.
There’s still a Ro echo from the last time I was here, but when the hostess stops short at our table, I step back to avoid a collision and my shoulder sinks briefly into Asher’s chest. My skin flushes at the contact, and the echo gets a little bit fainter.
“What are you smiling about over there?” Ash asks, unfolding his napkin. I follow suit.
“I just did not see this coming,” I admit. “Being out with you like this.”
“Why not?”
I wasn’t prepared to have to defend my statement. I’d assumed it was a given, but apparently, I’d assumed wrong.
“You were like Mr. High School, and back then, I was still slurping spit through my palate separator.”
Asher winces, but he doesn’t deny the graphic picture I’ve painted.
“Do you still talk to anybody from back then? Michelle?” I’m not sure why I ask it or if I even care to know the answer, but once it’s out there, I shovel an entire baguette into my mouth so I can’t make it worse.
“That was a million years ago,” he says, sidestepping the question.
“Eight, for you,” I correct from behind a fist to minimize the breadcrumb spray.
“Well, it feels like a million. We were kids.”
“So that’s a no?”
Ash laughs and shakes his head. “No, I haven’t talked to her. And before you ask about any other ancient history, since Zola set this up,” he says, referring to the two of us, “I haven’t talked to anyone else either. I’ve just been waiting for you. Like always.”
“Why do guys do that?” I ask, genuinely curious. “You hardly knew I existed and that’s okay. It was a million years ago, right?”
“Well, I always thought you were cute.”
“Asher,” I warn. “Don’t make me box up a perfectly good chicken parm.”
His fork clinks the plate when he drops it in mock offense. “Fine, I was too dumb to be checking for you back then, but I am now.” He retrieves his fork but doesn’t bring his bite of linguine to his lips until after he says, “You’re beautiful.”
I sip my wine to hide the heat creeping up my face, but watch him with the same quiet fascination I did when we were kids.
It really doesn’t seem fair that some people are genetically blessed to be hot all their lives, while the rest of us had to wait for modern technology and karma to take pity on us.
Eventually, the screaming thirteen-year-old girl inside my head quiets, and I lean back in my chair. “I can’t figure out if it feels like it’s been forever or—”
“Like no time has passed at all?”
“Yes! What is that?”
“I was thinking the same thing a few minutes ago,” he agrees. “But then I remembered we reconnected because Zola’s having a kid and I feel my age again.”
“Right? Who decided any of us are grown enough to raise a whole human person?” I’m laughing, but I know in my bones she’s ready.
“Is she still with the same guy she was dating when I left? Jason something?”
“Nope” is all I offer. “But she’s got this.”
“What about your parents? How are they doing?”
“My mom’s good. I think she enjoys embarrassing me with these dates almost as much as Zola.”
“I can’t be mad at that. Saved me from having to work up the nerve to ask you out myself.”
On the outside I’m rolling my eyes like shut up, but inside, the screaming teen is back.
“And your dad? How’s he feel about all this?”
“You’d have to find him to ask,” I say without thinking. I’m as surprised as Ash looks by the words tumbling out of my mouth, but I’m even more surprised that I don’t immediately want to shove them back in. They’re true.
“Your parents split up?”
“They did,” I confirm. And though my admission doesn’t feel as heavy as usual, tonight I’m also fine to leave it at that.
“So, what about you,” I say, buoyed by how relaxed I feel. “Last year of med school, right?”
—
Dinner with Ash is like pulling an old dress out from the back of the closet. It’s fun to try on and you’re kind of proud it still fits, as if that’s some great accomplishment. But even if it looks good—and it does, it looks good as hell—I’d rather be in sweats.
Which is the next step on the night’s itinerary as Asher and I say our goodbyes outside.
“I don’t want to seem too eager or anything,” he says, shifting his weight. “But this was fun.”
“It was,” I say easily. “I’m really glad we did it.”
He moves to join me, and I notice how nice it is not to have to crane my neck quite as much to meet Asher’s eyes the way I do with Ro. I also notice that this is far from the first time tonight I’ve compared these two men who have little in common outside of me.
“So, how’d I do? You gonna give me another shot sometime?”
He really does look the same. Like he’s been waiting for me in a time capsule buried under the football field. Along with my wire retainer and training bra.
Ash’s tongue darts out to wet his lips, and a not-so-small part of me is tempted to satisfy an old curiosity about kissing the quarterback, but I can name a million reasons the hug I actually give him makes so much more sense.
I’m still wrapped in his arms, when Ash repeats his unanswered question. “You’re gonna give me another shot sometime. Right?”
When I tilt my face up to respond, we’re closer than I’d expected. The biggest, goofiest smile spreads across Ash’s face at our nearness.
I hope he doesn’t notice when my own smile falters, just a little, as I dodge the question with a gentle, “I’ll text you later.”
For all the reasons I don’t kiss Asher Hall, his final smile is the reason I know we won’t, in fact, be doing this again sometime.
Because no matter how perfect or pearly or kind, his smile doesn’t have Ro’s dimple.