12. Shawn #2
Billie comes by with long matches and lights the votive candle sitting in a squat glass dish in the middle of the table. It’s almost romantic.
And then it hits me like a fastball to the head—it’s not almost romantic. The candle, the twinkle lights in the rafters of the solarium that are taking over now that it’s growing dark outside, the intimate table for two, my offering to pay—all of this is pretty fucking romantic.
I haven’t been on one in a while, but I’ve been on dates not all that different from this.
Fuck.
My palms start sweating, and my breathing goes shallow.
How did I not see this? How did I not notice?
Does Blaze think something is weird? Is something weird?
Maybe this is totally normal, and I’m the one blowing everything out of proportion.
I wipe my hands on my thighs and glance across the room at the couple sitting at the other table.
The girl’s face is glowing in the candlelight, and she’s staring at the guy like he’s imparting the meaning of life to her.
Their ankles are touching, and the guy has one hand resting on the table, the girl lightly stroking the back of his knuckles.
They look like they’re going to leave dinner and go fuck in their doily-covered bedroom.
I’ve accidentally invited Blaze into something that very much resembles a date.
But if it’s two friends hanging out for dinner, it’s not a date, right? For it to be a true date, there’d have to be some declaration of intent. Blaze would have to think it’s a date, too, and there’s no way he’s thinking what I’m thinking. Is there?
Billie delivers a basket of sliced sourdough bread and a small ramekin of butter.
“Oh god, this is incredible, you have to try it,” Blaze says, pushing the basket toward me. “They must get their butter from the same place Nolan does. It’s so good.”
Instead of watching Blaze eat and second-guessing everything, I do what he suggests and spread a generous dollop of butter on a slice of bread. The flavor is rich and salty on my tongue.
“Holy mother,” I say, “that’s the best bread and butter I’ve ever had.”
“I could practically just eat this for dinner,” he says, taking a second piece.
“Beer and bread? Lots of carbs,” I say.
He pats his stomach, which isn’t flat, but isn’t flabby. It’s more like a firm, round barrel to go with his strong pecs and shoulders. The guy could probably bench me without breaking a sweat.
“I’m a carbs fan,” he says.
“Oh, are the carbs making it to the playoffs this year?” I joke.
He laughs generously, and I’m way too pleased with myself. “Should we check the score?”
Oh yeah. The Laurels game. “Why not?” Maybe checking in on real life will make this seem less like a fantastic dream. I feel a little guilty for not being in touch with Jett, and some of the other guys. But they don’t need me to tell them good luck. They don’t need me at all.
He pulls his phone out of his jacket, pocket then frowns at the screen. “Oh, shit.”
“What?” My pulse leaps at the possibility of bad news.
“I forgot about Brooke. She texted a little while ago asking about dinner.”
I forgot, too, and feel like a heel. “She can join us here,” I say, though that’s not a practical option since our meals are probably on the way out.
“No, she says she’ll see me at home. Oops.” He looks up at me, his eyebrows pulled down in a vee. “I can’t believe I forgot about her.”
“My fault, probably,” I say, because it kind of is.
He sucks his bottom lip into his mouth as if he’s thinking about how much of the blame to throw on my shoulders.
“Nah, it’s all good. It’s not like we had a set plan or anything.
We were being spontaneous. Plus, she’s probably happy to have a night to herself.
I’m always around. I think that’s why she’s been spending so much time out of the house lately.
Sometimes it’s annoying to have a roommate who’s a sibling. ”
“That’s why you’re building the new house.”
He grins. “Am I the best brother in the world, or what?”
That’s an easy answer. “Absolutely.”
The pork chops are tender, the mashed potatoes sing, the baby carrots and parsnips add a hearty undertone to the meal. We eat and groan over how good it is. “Billie, tell Gail if she ever wants to come work at the retreat, we’ll kick Nolan out.”
Billie laughs and shakes her head. “You know she wouldn’t like the commute.”
“Working from home is pretty sweet,” Blaze agrees. “Well, give her our compliments.”
“Give them yourself.” Another middle-aged woman sporting a white apron with tight brown braids coiled over her head bustles our way. Blaze gets up to give her a hug and kiss on the cheek. She eyes me. “Who’s this?”
“Shawn Camden, this is Gail Peabody.”
I stand to shake her hand. “Amazing meal.”
“Really amazing,” Blaze echoes.
“Well, it’s about time you came to dinner here. We’ve been doing this Saturday dinner for about a year now. People seem to like them,” Gail says modestly.
“I’ll be sure to spread the word,” Blaze promises.
“Saved room for any dessert?” she asks. “I’ve got two slabs of chocolate cake with your names on them.”
“In that case, definitely,” Blaze answers. “Shawn?”
“Maybe I’ll just have a bite of yours,” I say, then wince because sharing desserts is definitely date behavior. Jesus, what am I doing?
But Blaze turns to Gail. “He’s more of a caramel person.”
“Is he now?” she says. “I made a crème caramel the other night. Let me see if I can rustle you up a bowl.”
“Oh, don’t go to any trouble,” I say weakly.
“No trouble for a friend of Blaze,” she says. “You boys sit tight.”
“You didn’t have to say anything,” I say, faintly embarrassed.
“She’s thrilled you loved the meal. And you can still have a bite of my cake if you want,” he says with a little wink.
I let out a breath. Okay, if he can joke about it, maybe I haven’t fucked up too badly. Maybe this is normal for rural Maine, two guy friends getting dinner and dessert with no romance implied whatsoever. It’s clearly all in my head.