Chapter 19 #2
Somehow a walk that should have taken ten minutes felt like hours.
I checked the landmarks and street names multiple times to make sure we weren’t accidentally making a giant loop around the neighborhood.
When the restaurant with its black stucco facade and vintage neon signs in the windows came into view, I was relieved.
We hadn’t walked far but I was desperately in need of sitting down. And a margarita.
When my hand grasped around the door, Evan clutched my shoulder. Dormant sparks flickered back to life. He slipped on a pair of round glasses and tousled his sandy waves. He looked like himself, but somehow not like himself.
“Clark Kent much?” I stiffly joked, unfortunately he looked even better with the glasses on. I learned something new about myself.
“It works surprisingly well,” he shrugged, letting out a light chuckle.
Anything to disperse the tension.
The employee at the host stand stared at Evan, trying to piece together where they recognized him from when we walked in.
“Hi, two please. Table in the back would be ideal,” I cheerily said to them.
I felt Evan’s gaze wander from taking in the strings of Christmas lights that covered the ceiling over to me.
“Thank you,” he mouthed.
The restaurant was definitely divey, but oddly comforting.
The scent of fajitas sizzling on skillets and freshly squeezed limes wafted through the air.
The tables were filled with mostly young couples or small groups, all entranced in conversation with one another.
Too busy to notice Evan as he walked with his head down.
We couldn’t so much as manage pleasantries with each other before a server manifested in front of us and asked for our drink orders. I sputtered out my preferred spicy margarita. Evan rapped his fingers on the table, brows furrowing as he took in the menu.
“He’ll have a Corona with lime,” I said, and the server flitted away. “Was that okay?”
“Yeah, uh perfect actually, thanks.”
“Did you forget how to order at a restaurant like us regular folk?”
Goofy riffing on one another was easy, authenticity was much harder.
“Funny, but no. I was distracted by the six different types of nachos they have listed. I’m starving. I haven't eaten all day.”
Was it from nerves or because you’re shedding weight for whatever season of Thorndown you’re about to film next, I wondered.
I sat tensely, munching on the complimentary chips and salsa, holding out for the inevitable turn towards whatever Evan actually came to speak to me about. He was unfazed, save for his nervous tapping.
“Evan. Seriously. Why are you here? Why are we doing this?” I let the tension pull so taut that it snapped a little too hard. I was milliseconds away from getting up and running off.
“I feel like our last interaction was…” he seemed to struggle to find the right way to phrase that night, “…less than ideal.”
That was the understatement of the century and an absurdly diplomatic way of putting things. Evan fiddled with my straw wrapper, avoiding eye contact. Something lurked beneath the surface, a shark waiting to strike.
I cleared my throat too loudly. “Listen. I’m really, really sorry about the whole fanfiction thing, and lying to you about it.
I don’t know what else to say about it,” I was looking away from him and the words kept coming out.
“I know that it was so fucking weird of me to think that I could keep that a secret and it was wrong, so incredibly wrong to keep you in the dark. And I don’t fault you whatsoever for reacting how you did, honestly if I were in your position I probably would’ve reacted even more poorly.
” Flashes of his narrowed eyes and tensed jaw passed through my mind, “if anything you’re giving me too much grace here.
I know that it won’t undo any of the damage from that night but if it’s any consolation I’m completely done with anything Thorndown.
So, if you need to tell me off or serve up a restraining order or lawsuit you can get it over with before we have to sit through this entire dinner together. ”
Evan was still staring at the table. Still fiddling with the paper wrapper. I lowered my shaking hands and stuffed them under my thighs to quell the trembling.
“That’s not why I’m here at all,” he said in a whisper.
“Then why are you here, because it’s been eating me alive for two weeks.” The heat began rising in my cheeks, my eyes began burning. I wouldn’t cry, not at this restaurant, not in public, and especially not when sitting across from Evan.
“I felt like I owed you a conversation, and an apology for how I reacted,” his voice was a plucky staccato, as though he was trying to select the right words. “And truly, I’m sorry for that. I was exceptionally cruel for no reason. You didn’t deserve that.”
For someone who spoke for a living he was having difficulty muddling through a simple sentence.
“So it’s a self preservation thing?”
Maybe he still wanted to preserve his perfect image as a hero still. His perceived social value was far more crucial to protect than mine.
“No, not in the slightest,” Evan hung his head low and rubbed the bridge of his nose.
Silence was hanging between us, embedded into the smoke wafting from the kitchen.
“I was scared this would be my only shot.” He spoke a little too loudly, causing a few patrons at the tables nearby to briefly look over at us.
He turned his head towards the wall to avoid being recognized.
I wanted to ask a million questions, but “shot at what?” was the only thing my mouth could muster.
Finally, he lifted his head.
Our eyes met and I watched his pupils expand among a sea of blue. “I thought about finding you and reaching out so many times before this, but couldn’t bring myself to because I assumed you’d want nothing to do with me. Now at least I had a real excuse.”
This was not at all how I expected this to go. I was anticipating walking home in tears after a painfully uncomfortable dinner. The flush spread across my chest and someone must have turned the temperature up in here at least fifteen degrees.
“That’s ridiculous,” I shook my head. “You’re thinking entirely irrationally. You should want nothing to do with me.”
“Maybe I am, but can I at least finish dinner with you before I decide?”
I was rendered speechless.
The ambiguity of it all was uncomfortable.
I didn’t want to be with him in the restaurant anymore, every fiber of my being was rejecting staying sat on the sticky vinyl bench across from him.
I couldn’t run, not right now at least, so I threw up my arms in defeat and allowed the dinner to continue. “Fine, fine, okay.”
I asked him what he thought about Boston, he told me he’d been shuffled from his hotel room, to conference rooms, to other conference rooms.
“Up until I drove to your place I only saw the sky through windows,” he had said.
He asked me what I’d been doing the rest of the summer. I omitted the hours of writing I’d been doing each week when I talked about the patio drinking I had done and the wedding dress shopping trips I’d gone on with both Andrea and Caroline.
It was fine, I had to admit that. Easy, even. Evan studied me as I spoke, the same way he did when we were sitting at Sue and Randy’s kitchen table.
He rested his head in his folded hands, finding reverence in the mundanity of tonight. He laughed deeply from his diaphragm as I recounted the story of someone getting locked in a porta potty at a beer garden and knocking the rest over in a real life game of horrible dominoes.
Our second round of drinks were empty, and I was swirling the last bits of ice in my cup.
Evan munched on the scraps of chips that sat in the basket, somehow not satisfied by the entire plate of nachos he’d manage to eat.
The dinner was winding down. It seemed like he wanted more reason to stay here, each sentence accompanied by a silent prayer that the night wouldn’t end.
“How strange it is that we were even able to meet at all,” he said wistfully before pinching a chip crumb with his fingers and popping it into his mouth.
“We’ve met before,” I replied coolly and looked down at my plate.
“Have we?” an amused grin played on his lips. “I surely would have remembered you.”
“I doubt that you would. It’s actually so embarrassing in hindsight.”
“Wait.” His eyes grew wide and his smirk grew wider, “did I meet you…as a fan? Was it at Castle Con?”
“Oh god, it’s so much worse when you’re the one saying it,” I dropped my head in my hands, mortified.
When I attended Castle Con—“Sword of Thorndown’s Exclusive Fan Convention”—eight years prior, I not only attended every panel I could, I’d also paid extra for a VIP meet and greet with Evan.
Meet and greet was too kind a term for what the package really entailed, a fifteen second photo opportunity and brief conversation.
My expectations going into it were minimal, and I’d seen the snaking line of fans all waiting for their chance.
Some cried, some brought gifts that were gently placed behind the maroon velvet curtain Evan stood in front of, and others tried to force hugs or cheek kisses.
As the line slowly moved, regret had sunk in.
I’d paid seventy five dollars for what? A photo as proof that I’d met Sir Erwyn and spoken to him?
I knew it wouldn’t be a lasting interaction for either of us, and yet, there I was, checking my makeup in my compact to make sure I looked my best when meeting him.
When I got to the front of the line every quip I’d planned to say went out the window. The most I could manage was a shaky smile and a breathy “hi.”
When Evan had seen me he paused a bit and smiled, “lovely dress you have on there.”
I remembered how flushed I got at the comment at the time, how genuine he sounded when he said it. I’d assumed he was just being nice, that every other girl in this line received the same, and I carried that assumption with me for nearly a decade.