3. Stella #2
He shifts to make room without asking why. “Better,” I murmur. All he does is put a chip in his mouth and nod, like this makes all the sense in the world.
He’s right about the food. The enchiladas are messy and perfect; the rice is maybe the most flavorful rice I’ve ever eaten in my life. The beans have a smoky flavor that leaves me wondering if it would be okay to lick the plate. I decide against it, but just barely.
“Do you come here often?” I ask him between bites, which isn’t easy, considering I can’t stop shoveling the food into my face. I don’t even want to think about the last time I ate a solid meal like this.
“When I’m passing through the area.”
“Do you do that a lot?” It doesn’t hit me until a frown touches the corners of his mouth that I’m asking too many questions.
There I go again, reminding myself why I don’t do the whole in-person thing.
“Sorry,” I mumble around a mouthful of beans.
“You know, you can tell me to mind my own business. It’s okay. ”
“Why would I do that?” His frown deepens.
Who is this guy? He’s a walking contradiction.
The waiter comes by to refill our water.
I look up at him to say thank you when I notice the way he’s staring at the wall.
Even that wouldn’t be too weird if it wasn’t for the way his hand is shaking.
It makes the pitcher rattle against the glass.
He sets it down too fast, making the water slosh dangerously. “Anything else, sir?”
He sounds like someone is squeezing him.
“No, thank you,” Tristan murmurs. The waiter backs up two steps before turning around and practically running for the kitchen.
I can’t help but watch him go, and once he disappears behind a swinging door, my attention falls on the man behind the counter. He’s older, thick forearms, with a dish towel over his shoulder. He basically looks like the kind of guy who could throw you out on the street without breaking a sweat.
And he’s staring at our table. No, he’s staring at Tristan.
“Are these people afraid of you?” I whisper to Tristan, who has been chewing through all of this and occasionally glancing up at the TV mounted to the wall where a soccer game is underway.
“Some people,” he mumbles, shrugging.
“But that waiter looked like you were holding his family hostage.”
“Eat your food.” He says it warmly, almost like he’s joking.
Almost. I shrug and go back to my rice because what am I going to do?
Let’s face it, he is an intimidating guy.
They see the shaved head and the tattoo and the size of him, and they interpret it one way while I interpret it another.
They might see the scars and the ink and go on the defensive.
I see it, but all I see is a man who hid straws for me without asking why he had to do it.
I’m looking down at my plate, once again wondering if it would be rude for me to lick it clean, when I feel his body change next to me. It just so happens the front door has swung open, making the bell above it chime. Every muscle goes tight and his breathing shifts.
I glance up at him, then at the men. They don’t sit, either of them.
They stand inside the door, hands in their jacket pockets, and they look at our booth.
One of them has a neck thicker than my thigh.
The other has eyes that remind me of a fish—flat, wet, empty.
He mutters something to the thick-necked guy out of the corner of his mouth.
“Tristan?” I whisper.
He’s already pulling cash from inside his jacket. A fold of bills, much too many for enchiladas and rice. He sets it all on the table without counting it before his hand finds the small of my back. “We’re leaving.”
“What? Right now?”
“Right now.”
There’s no choice but to get up once he starts pushing his way out of the booth.
He walks me to the door with his body between me and those two men the entire way.
The fish-eyed man’s gaze slides over me like something slimy sliding over my body.
My alarm system stirs, like an animal lifting its head at the scent of danger.
But then we’re outside, where the air is warm and the light is much brighter than anything inside the restaurant.
Tristan’s hand doesn’t leave my back, and there is a definite feeling of safety and security in his touch.
When I look at him, I find him surveying the street, the sidewalk, his eyes constantly moving.
I don’t think he even exhales until I’m in the passenger seat with the door shut.
For the first block or two, I can’t bring myself to speak. We were having such a nice time, too. Now the energy in the car is thick enough to cut with a knife. His jaw is dangerously tight, which goes well with the way he’s gripping the wheel like it’s a lifeline.
“Who were those guys?” I have to ask.
“Nobody.”
“They didn’t look like nobody.”
“They’re not your problem.”
I’m sure that’s supposed to reassure me. Let’s just say it doesn’t.
The city rolls by outside the tinted glass. I watch it without seeing it, thinking about those last few minutes in the restaurant. Those men were scary. Something was wrong. I don’t know what, but I’ve been clocking fearful situations all my life. My internal sensor never misses.
Then again, the man next to me doesn’t scare me even though he scared the daylights out of that waiter. Maybe my sensor is broken?
All I know for sure is if those men were a threat, Tristan would not let anything touch me. I know it in the deepest part of my soul, without needing it explained to me. He would protect me, and that’s enough.
I also know once he pulls into what I’ve already started thinking of as his spot across the street from my apartment that I don’t want to go up alone. I’ve spent too much time alone as it is, and I won’t do anything but sit and replay the end of our lunch over and over.
“Do you want to come up?” I blurt out. “We can watch a movie. I have a couch and one of the cushions kind of smells no matter how much I Febreze it, but it’s comfortable.”
I watch a war taking place behind his stony expression. He wants to, I can tell. But his brows are drawn together, and his lips are pulled into a thin line like he’s fighting with himself over whether he should do this. “I really wish you would,” I add, in case it sways him.
I think it does. “Yeah. Okay,” he replies in a soft voice.
My smile is wide and real, and it feels a little reckless, but I’m too busy feeling happy to care very much whether or not this is a good idea. It feels right, and that’s all that matters.