Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
“ I won’t be home until really late tonight, so you should probably take a key with you,” Fern says. “I may even spend the night at Brett’s.”
I stop applying my foundation and focus my attention on her. “Where is it you’re going again?”
“Brett is taking me to a concert at The Paramount.”
“Who’s playing?” She rattles off the name of some band I’ve never heard of, and now I’m getting suspicious. I know Fern fairly well, and I’ve never heard her mention this band once. “What time does it start?”
“Doors open at six-thirty, and the concert starts at seven-thirty. We’re planning on going around seven.”
“Is Brett meeting you there or picking you up here?”
Fern narrows her eyes. “You’re asking a lot of questions. What’s the deal?”
A beat passes before I answer. “I just want to make sure you’re not eloping tonight.” I’ve been on high alert ever since she mentioned wanting to elope. I feel like any day now, they could decide that today’s the day. Not that it’s any of my business, but I’d at least like to know when they decide so I can plan a little something for after it happens.
Fern’s icy gaze softens. “You don’t have to worry. We’re not eloping tonight. I promise it’s just a concert.”
I give her a good once-over. With her skintight jeans and T-shirt, she very well could be telling the truth. Unless she plans on changing as soon as I leave. But I don’t really have time to worry about her intentions right now. I spent too long in the shower, and the subsequent hair drying has left me with only twenty minutes to apply my makeup and fix my hair.
“What time is Wesley coming to pick you up?” Fern asks.
“He’s supposed to be here in twenty minutes.”
Her brows shoot up. “That doesn’t give you much time at all. Do you already have your outfit picked out?”
“Sort of. I have a general idea, but don’t have it nailed down quite yet.” I feel really stupid I didn’t have things planned out ahead of time. I thought I’d have plenty of time to get ready, but Fern and I were binge watching a British crime drama this afternoon and I lost track of time. A shame because I never did figure out who “H” was.
“Let me help. What was your plan?”
I leave the bathroom momentarily and pull out a pair of black straight-legged dress pants and an adorable blush-pink sweater. “I was going to wear this outfit with these shoes,” I say, grabbing a pair of kitten-heeled black dress shoes from my closet. “What do you think?”
“I think it’s a nice look. I definitely approve. Where is he taking you?”
“Since it’s not raining, we’re taking the ferry to Bainbridge Island to walk the shops and go out to eat.”
Fern nods approvingly. “That sounds nice. I’m sure you’ll have a good time.”
She leaves me to finish getting ready, and right as I’m slipping on my shoes, there’s a knock on the door. I assume it’s Wesley and rush to the door with my phone in hand, ready to go. I thrust the door open to reveal a male figure on the other side.
“Hey, Dahlia. Were you expecting someone?” Brett says.
“She’s got a date tonight,” Fern yells from the couch.
“Hey, Brett. Sorry, I thought you were my date who was supposed to be here by now.”
He smiles. “Don’t worry about it. You look nice tonight, by the way.”
I smile back at him. “Thank you.”
Could Brett be any nicer? He always seems to know what to say, and the compliment was most welcome. It gave my confidence a much-needed boost, and I’m smiling a little harder now. Fern really lucked out with him, and I think the two of them make a cute couple. Is Wesley Brett-level nice? That I don’t know yet, but so far so good.
Brett passes by me, and I’m about to shut the door when I see Wesley’s car pull up to the curb. I turn back toward Fern. “I don’t know what to do here. Should I close the door and pretend I didn’t see him, or do I meet him on the curb?”
Fern shoos me away. “Don’t wait. Go out there and meet him already.”
I follow her advice and head down the steps to where Wesley is parked on the street. With the car still running, he gets out and hurries around to my side to get my door for me.
“I was just about to come up to get you,” he says, seeming a little irritated that I didn’t wait for him.
I take my seat and let him settle into the driver’s seat before answering. “Sorry. Brett stopped by, and I thought it was you at the door, so I answered it. Then I saw you pulling up and decided to meet you at the curb so you wouldn’t have to walk up the steps. I was trying to do you a favor.”
Wesley’s expression softens as he straightens out the cuffs on his dress shirt. “It’s all right. In the future though, I like to do the chivalrous thing like coming up to the front door to get you, and opening your car door for you.”
Why does it feel like he’s scolding me? “Okay, but know that sometimes I’m capable of getting my own door too.”
“I know that. But tonight, I’m supposed to be treating you, and that means treating you like the princess you are.”
When he puts it like that, I guess that doesn’t sound so bad. “What time is the ferry crossing tonight?”
“It’s at seven. There’s nothing special happening on the island tonight, so arriving twenty minutes early should be enough time for us to make the sailing.”
With traffic giving us only a minimal slowdown, we manage to get to the ferry terminal with twenty minutes to spare like Wesley said. He pays the attendant for our fares, and we take our spots in line with the rest of the cars waiting to get across.
“Have you ever been on the ferry before?” he asks.
“A few times. My dad never really liked taking them though. He’d rather drive around to places instead of waiting on the ferry to take him across. It was probably cheaper that way too.”
“Even to places like Whidbey Island? He’d rather drive around to there?”
“When the wait times to get on the ferry are sometimes as long as it takes to drive around, can you blame him?”
Wesley scratches his chin in thought. “Huh. I see your point.”
“Do you take the ferry a lot?”
“I did when I was younger. My paternal grandparents lived on Vashon Island, so the only way to see them was by boat. We used to take the ferry, but then my dad ended up buying a boat, so we’d use our own boat to visit them.”
“Where would you put your boat? There can’t be that many places on that island to dock,” I say.
He stares at me, confusion in his expression. “What do you mean? We’d tie up to their dock,” he says like that answer should’ve been obvious to me.
“Their dock?” I ask, because I still don’t get it.
“My grandparents had a waterfront home,” he says casually, as he plucks a stray hair from his dress slacks.
Oh, right. Of course they did. Just like Wesley’s dad’s boat was probably some forty-foot yacht. I’m sure he’s not intentionally rubbing his family’s wealth in my face, but he’s making it hard to ignore.
I decide to change the topic immediately because it’s probably for the best that I don’t know his family’s history anymore. Any time he’s talked about it, it only makes me feel bad about my own. “When was the last time you were on Bainbridge Island?”
“I was there last year, but haven’t been back since. That’s why I wanted to take you there. I thought it would be a nice change from Seattle. And it’s not raining, so we should get a nice view from the ferry.”
Around us, cars begin to drive onto the ferry, and soon, it’s our turn to drive on. We park the car, then get out and walk up to the passenger cabin. We take a seat at one of the booths and gaze out the window at the surrounding waters. Since it was a rare clear day today, the tiniest hint of orange is still visible over the Olympic Mountains.
“I’ll never tire of this view,” I say, looking at the way the sun highlights the snow on the Olympics.
“It’s lovely, isn’t it? I can’t believe my parents traded this view for New Mexico.”
“Yeah, but I don’t blame them. When it’s January and we’re approaching the umpteenth day of nothing but clouds and rain, it would be nice to look at a little sunshine no matter where it is.”
“And your parents have no plans to leave?” he asks.
I shake my head. “They like being close to me and my sister. And my mom is finally getting her dream kitchen, so they’re definitely staying for a while.”
“What do you mean ‘finally getting’ it?”
“She’s been talking for years about remodeling the kitchen because that’s where she spends most of her time. And while the space was livable, she always dreamed of a bigger, better thought-out space.”
“Why didn’t they remodel it sooner?”
“They couldn’t afford it,” I say.
“Oh,” he says like he gets it. But I’m guessing from his expression, a lack of money was never on his mind. It’s probably something he never had to experience growing up. “My mom remodeled her kitchen twice while I was growing up. Even in their new place, she’s already gutted the kitchen.”
“Does she cook a lot?”
“Not really. Takeout mostly. When they do use the kitchen, it’s just to grab a salad or sandwich, and for entertaining.”
That seems so wasteful. Then again, Wesley’s family probably has so much money, remodeling a kitchen is like pennies to them. Am I ever going to get used to his family’s wealth?
About thirty minutes pass, and then we’re instructed to head back to our cars. Once it’s our turn, we drive off the boat and onto Bainbridge Island. Since most of the shopping is right near the terminal, it doesn’t take us long to reach our destination. Parking is another matter though, and we end up having to park two blocks away from the main street where the shops are.
“Where do you want to go next?” Wesley asks me.
“Do we have dinner reservations anywhere? Or do we have time to stroll the shops?”
“No reservations, and all the time in the world to do whatever you want,” he says with a smile.
“Then let’s just start at one end and work our way down through the shops.”
As we walk down Winslow Way, we hit up all of the shops that are still open, including a kitchen store, a bookstore, and a small antique mall. In one of the stores, a gift shop filled with all manner of Pacific Northwest memorabilia, Wesley buys me an adorable shopping tote that has a cartoony version of Bigfoot on it. Because every Pacific Northwesterner has to own at least one Bigfoot item whether you believe or not.
Once we finish shopping, we head to the restaurant which is a little unassuming place from the exterior. We get inside and the place is tiny. We’re talking maybe fifty seats at most. Miraculously, we’re seated right away at a small, two-seater table against a wall that is dotted with scenic pictures of the surrounding areas. The hostess gets my chair for me, and hands us a couple of menus.
I stare down at the menu, don’t see anything that looks remotely appetizing, then flip it over to the other side. Huh. That’s weird. The other side is completely blank. I flip it back over to the front side, then back. Nope. Still blank. Okay, not a problem. Maybe I just missed where the food was on the other side. I flip the menu back to the front.
By now, Wesley is staring at me with a curious expression on his face. “What’s wrong?”
“The menu. There’s not much on it. And I don’t see the normal sections that a menu usually has.”
“That’s because this isn’t a normal restaurant.” He holds up his menu. “All the food is in the top section,” he says, pointing to the top section like an elementary school teacher would point to a problem on the board. “And the drinks are at the bottom.”
I nod like I get it, but I don’t. The drinks section may have names I understand, but nothing about the food stands out except halibut and oysters . And what’s supposed to accompany these “normal” items sounds so weird. Like what the hell are velouté and katsobushi? And could someone please tell me what goose tongue is? Do geese even have tongues, and do I want to eat that?
“Have you ever been here before?” I ask. Weird food aside, it doesn’t seem like a place you’d just stumble upon. Like, no one is going to walk by and assume this is a restaurant. There was no outdoor seating, and no chairs for people to wait for an open table. This place looked like it could be any one of the other shops along this street.
He’s quiet for a moment, looking like he’s choosing his words carefully. “I actually came here once before with someone else.”
He doesn’t elaborate on who that someone else was, and the words tumble out of my mouth before I stop to think about why he wouldn’t tell me. “Who did you come here with?”
His gaze flits away from mine. “My ex and I had our one-year anniversary here last year. That was before she dumped me for someone else.”
“Why’d you choose this restaurant then?” If this was someplace that held bad memories for me, it’s the last place I would want to come.
“Because I’m ready to move on and associate this place with something positive. I didn’t want that experience to ruin this place for me.”
“I can understand that. And I hope this evening will help rid this place of any bad memories.”
He smiles and takes my hand in his. “It’s working so far.”
Our server stops at our table to get our drinks, then is back in a flash to take our dinner order. I still have no idea what anything is and rattle off “the halibut,” so it sounds like I know what I’m talking about. I just pray she doesn’t ask me any questions about ways to customize it. She doesn’t, and takes Wesley’s order which is the octopus with goose tongue.
We sip our drinks and make small talk while we wait, and I steer clear of any talk about his family. It takes so long for our dinner that Wesley manages to make it through two glasses of wine. When our plates are finally delivered, they look more like art projects than dinner.
I stare at Wesley’s plate. “Where’s the goose tongue?”
Wesley points at some lightly steamed greens and takes in my befuddled expression. “What did you think goose tongue was?”
“I thought you were going to be eating an actual goose’s tongue. I had no idea there was a plant that went by that name.”
Wesley laughs a big, booming laugh, drawing attention from some of the diners surrounding us. My cheeks flush with embarrassment. Was it that obvious that goose tongue is a plant? Maybe I’m not refined enough to be here.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “You should’ve asked me if you didn’t know.”
“I didn’t know what half the stuff on that menu was,” I fire back. “I didn’t want you to think less of me for not knowing.”
“I’m sorry,” he says again. “I don’t mind that you didn’t know. We’ve just had different food experiences in our lives.”
That’s it. I’m ready to get out of this restaurant and back into my own element. It’s clear that Wesley and I are two different people and while he seems nice enough, it’s not going to work out. I shouldn’t feel inferior every time I’m with a guy. I want to be treated as an equal, not someone to be pitied because I didn’t spend my youth and early adult life dining in fancy establishments. I’m perfectly happy having Mom’s cooking because to me, there’s nothing that compares.
I hurry through my meal and switch to drinking water while I wait for Wesley to finish his. He orders another glass of wine for himself and takes his time with his octopus. I excuse myself to the bathroom to kill time because it seems that he’s in no rush to leave.
In the bathroom, I scroll through my phone and see a bunch of missed text messages from Lorelei and Chelsea. Shit. I forgot our annual Twilight watch party.
It’s something we’ve done every year since middle school because that’s when the first movie came out. We all went to the theaters to see Twilight , and did the same each year when a new movie would come out. Once there were no more movies released, we got together each year to watch them all on disc. As we got older and our schedules busier, we usually wouldn’t have time for all the movies, so we’d choose a few to watch.
I quit wanting to partake in this event five years ago, and in fact, last year I suggested that maybe it’s time we move on and find something else to watch. Lorelei acted like I’d just kidnapped her dog. From the tone of her messages tonight, I know she thinks I bailed on them. I’ll have to patch things up with her later.
By the time I exit the bathroom, Wesley is finally done with his meal. He flashes a lopsided, dopey smile when he sees me.
“Are you…ready…to go?” he asks, draining the last of his wine.
Oh, no. What is happening here? Wesley doesn’t sound like his normal self, and when I stare into his eyes, they have this sort of glazed look about them. He only had two glasses of wine. Or was it three? Can you get drunk off of three glasses of wine? I mean, they were very generous pours, at least that I can remember.
“Uh, yeah. I’m ready to go,” I say, taking my seat once more.
“Let… Let me just…get…our server,” he says, raising his hand in the air and waving it around. He continues waving it around, like it’s some sort new appendage that he’s just figured out how to use.
I pick his wine glass up off the table and give it a sniff. My God. It smells like straight alcohol in there. What the hell was he drinking?
Our server approaches our table and asks if we’d like dessert. “Tonight, we have buttermilk ice cream with seaweed foam…” She continues to speak in some foreign language about tuile and black rice with cardamom this, and whatever else comes out of her mouth.
Seaweed foam? This place has even ruined dessert!
I politely state that no, we don’t want any dessert, and ask her what she was serving to Wesley tonight.
“Oh, he was having a Marsala wine from Italy. It’s some pretty strong stuff. I think it’s twenty percent alcohol by volume, and he had almost the whole bottle.” She says this with a chuckle and a grin, like this whole situation is nothing but a joke to her. Meanwhile, I’m staring at my drunken date trying to figure out how the hell I’m going to get him out of this restaurant, let alone home.
“We’ll just take the check. Thanks.”
I look across the table at Wesley. He’s still sitting up, but now his posture is slumping, and I’m afraid that soon, I’m going to be picking his ass up off the floor. At least he finally put his hand down.
She returns promptly with the check and tells me to take my time with it. Wesley makes no move for his wallet, so I remind him that it’s time to pay. He stares at me blankly, a stupid grin across his face.
“You need to get your wallet out so you can pay for our meal,” I say firmly.
Still nothing.
I’m sure as hell not paying for this meal, so that means I have to get Wesley’s wallet out of his pocket and still keep him upright in his seat. While trying not to draw too much attention to our table, I get out of my seat and go over to where Wesley’s slumping further and further down in his seat.
“Oh, hi,” he says to me, like it’s the first time he’s seen me all night.
“Hi.”
“You’re pretty,” he says, brushing his hand across my cheek.
“And you’re drunk,” I say. “I’m just going to get your wallet out of your back pocket, okay?” I’m telling him this not because I think he’s going to somehow snap out of it and get his wallet for me. I’m saying this because I don’t want him to think that I’m trying to put the moves on him. Wesley might be a very affectionate drunk, and I really don’t want to find that out in this restaurant.
“Okay,” he replies, that stupid grin planted firmly on his face.
I don’t know what pocket he keeps his wallet in, so I take a chance and start with the left side. With my shoulder, I lean into his body to push him out of his seat slightly to give me access to his back pocket. I reach in and feel around.
“Ooohhh…you want it like that, huh?” Drunk Wesley says, giggling a little.
I can’t even find the words to respond to him.
There’s something firm in his pocket, and I reach in just a little deeper with my hand, and voila! Found it on the first try. His wallet is one of those slim ones with the hard sides, and I pull out the first card that’s in there. I figure if it’s in the front, it must be the one he uses the most.
The server returns for the card and is back within minutes with the receipt along with Wesley’s card. I decide that it’s probably best if I keep his wallet out because I’m not going to try and get it back into his pocket.
The insurmountable task of getting him out of this restaurant looms before me. That’s step one. Then I can worry about the rest of the journey home after that.
“Wesley, can you stand?” I ask. And when he doesn’t respond right away, I ask again.
“Stand?”
“Yeah, can you stand up?”
He nods. So he doesn’t fall on his ass when he tries, I offer him my hand for support. He pushes himself up from the table, wobbles a little on his feet, then grabs my hand and almost knocks me off-balance. My side hits the edge of the table and rams it into the wall, making a very loud thud which turns a few heads our way. With a smile to show that we’re okay, I drape Wesley’s arm over my shoulder and support his weight while we walk unsteadily out of the restaurant. This is totally normal. Nothing to see here. The hostess gets the door for us and wishes us a good evening. I can’t help but laugh because the rest of my evening is definitely not going to be good.
The nearest bench is a few doors down, and I manage to get him that far. But what to do from here? I can’t get him to his car on my own. I’m not that strong, and what if he falls and hits his head on the sidewalk? What if he falls into me and I get injured? And even if I could get him to his car, I can’t drive it. Wesley’s probably the only person in the world who would choose to drive a stick shift, and I never learned how to drive one.
I have to call for help, but who should I call? Definitely not my parents. They’re likely asleep by now, and they hate driving at night. I can’t call Chelsea or Lorelei for obvious reasons. Fern is probably still at the concert or at Brett’s place, and although I know she’d drop everything to come get me, I don’t want to be the reason her evening is cut short.
There is someone else I could call. But I’m not sure he would pick up for me.