Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-one
It was her first real date with Gabe, and Iris had changed her outfit four times before leaving her apartment.
She had briefly considered testing their connection without the perfume.
Then she’d dabbed it on her pulse points, cleavage, thighs, and anywhere else she wanted him to kiss.
Infatuation was a fragile bubble, she didn’t want to pop it.
They were meeting at Cervo’s, an Iberian restaurant in Chinatown where the summer evening painted Canal Street in an ochre glow.
Although the restaurant itself was tiny, its outdoor seating had sprawled out across the street like a block party, with tables dotting the asphalt underneath string lights like miniature setting suns.
Iris spotted Gabe leaning against the restaurant’s brick exterior with his hands in his pockets, taking in the scene.
It was unusual; no one just looked for the person they were waiting for anymore.
If you had the misfortune of arriving first, all the more reason to affect caring less.
You texted “Here” and kept your head buried in your phone until your date found you; even a lifted chin was too vulnerable.
Better to be tapped and feign surprise, “Oh, it’s you, I almost forgot. ”
But Gabe spotted her from far off and straightened with a smile.
His steady gaze made her shy, and she glanced down at her feet.
But then she let herself look back at him.
The golden hour lit his skin and made his eyes sparkle, and she felt aglow with his attention.
They were happy to see each other, and suddenly Iris couldn’t recall why this had ever been something to hide.
When she closed the distance between them, the last few feet were charged by their delicious anticipation. She bit her lip. “Hi.”
Gabe bent and kissed her cheek. She’d noticed he rarely spoke when an action would do. Iris breathed in his scent, less woodsmoke than the night she met him, now he smelled fresh and clean, like crisp bitter orange softened by the musk of his skin.
The wait to sit outdoors was too long, so they sat inside at the counter, which faced the open galley kitchen only two cooks wide. The drinks menu offered a vermouth service, and Gabe said the negronis were great, but Iris disliked Campari.
“Try the Cocchi Americano, long,” Gabe suggested. He ordered a white negroni with the same.
The vermouth arrived on the rocks with soda and a twist of lemon. She took a sip. It was sweet, aromatic, and refreshing.
Gabe read her face. “Nice, right? Fruity and something herbal that cools it all down, I don’t know what, it’s like…”
“Cardamom.” Iris remembered it from Madame Rapacine’s smell lessons.
He stole a kiss. “Mmm, I think you’re right.”
They ordered a parade of tapas and shared everything: petal-pink yellowfin tuna with bright orange habanada peppers drizzled in olive oil and sprinkled with sea salt crystals the size of snowflakes; melt-in-your-mouth clams drenched in butter, white wine, and a confetti of parsley, and when the clams had been eaten, Gabe read her mind and ordered extra bread to sop up the sauce; a small bouquet of crispy shrimp heads—at first glance Iris recoiled at their black eyes unseeing beneath a heavy dusting of red spice, but Gabe dug right in, crunching as carelessly as a lion.
Iris stalled and hesitated over trying one, laughing as Gabe cheered her on, yelping when the whiskery antennae tickled her nose, until she finally gave one a hasty chomp.
Gabe was right, it was delicious—a riot of different textures and tastes such that she savored her next bites—even if she did leave the eyes uneaten.
And finally the piri piri half chicken, the aroma alone evoked a future longing before the first bite was taken.
They talked so easily about anything and nothing that they didn’t get to the typical questions until the end of the meal, when Gabe asked, “What are you up to this weekend?”
Iris’s shoulders tensed. “I have to go to Pennsylvania tomorrow. Family funeral.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. Who died?”
“My cousin Jacob. He was only forty-two.”
Gabe swore. “Brutal. That’s too young. I’m sorry. Do your parents live in Pennsylvania?”
They had arrived at Iris’s least favorite moment of dating someone new, when she had to tell them about her family.
Although she had perfected the art of tragic story aftercare: telling a joke to clear the air, releasing people from their misguided fear that they alone had reminded her that her parents were dead.
This evening had been so breezy and fun, she considered lying, saying “Yes, they live in Pennsylvania.” But she didn’t want to hide things from Gabe—well, other than the perfume and the egg freezing—she didn’t want to hide anything else .
“Actually, both my parents have passed, I lost them when I was eleven. I was raised by my grandparents. Who are gone now too.”
He swore again. “That fire you survived…”
Iris sat back. “You remembered.”
“Not the kind of thing you forget.” Gabe shook his head. “But damn. That’s like superhero origin story territory.”
She laughed, surprised and delighted to have someone else cut the tension.
“But that’s horrible, I’m sorry, no kid should have to go through that. I didn’t mean to joke.”
“I don’t mind, really! Most people act like I’m a fragile doll when I tell them.”
“People are so stupid. As if the sheltered people are the toughest.”
“Right? Usually I tell someone and they get all frozen and freaked out, and I end up comforting them about my dead parents.”
“They do the same thing when I tell them I’m adopted.”
Instantly the smile dropped from her face.
He glanced at her. “Yeah, just like that.”
She covered her mouth. “I’m sorry!”
“And I know what you’re thinking: ‘But Gabe, I thought China only gave away baby girls to white Americans, which (a), what makes you assume I’m Chinese, you racist? and (b) you’re right, I am Chinese, the twist is, I was just a lackluster baby.”
Iris laughed, even as she recognized that this was Gabe’s adoptee-tight-five.
“But I got adopted by great parents, Italian American, so my name and face are a bait-and-switch, but at least we share a noodle culture. My mom’s still here, she lives in Brooklyn.
We lost my dad when I was twenty, pancreatic cancer, but he packed in at least forty years’ worth of love and smacking me in the head, so…
” He shrugged, but the emotion showed on his face.
She expressed her sympathy too.
He thanked her, then asked, “So who are you going with?”
“To the funeral? No one. I mean, I’ll have family there, obviously.”
“Do you want company?”
She was taken aback. “It’s not exactly gonna be a good time.”
“Oh, it’s not one of those party funerals?” Gabe smiled. “Look, we just started seeing each other, I know I’m not your first-string support player. But if you need a ride, someone to park the car, just someone to sit with…I’m up for it.”
Iris searched his face for a sign of reticence, smarminess, or any indication it was meant only as a gesture. But his expression remained open, his gaze steady, utterly relaxed. She felt her shoulders ease in response.
“I do hate parallel parking.”
“I’m your man.”