Chapter Nine
Yes. There are still a lot of people. Godspeed.
Elodie
Sitting around a large round table in the back room of one of Iferous’ fanciest restaurants, I’m pretty sure I’ve found food heaven.
“They have tiny little pink cakes,” I tell Ruby, seated to my right. “Tiny! Little! Pink! Cakes!”
She grunts, unimpressed.
Liam, though, rests his gaze on me, a spark of something that feels like approval glittering in its depths.
“They have little pink cakes ,” Amelia, two seats to my left, whispers in awe. “Brian, did you see?”
Liam’s approval transfers to her, and I look too, just in time to see Brian rest his head in his hand, the better to peer at his love in adoration. “I saw, A-mail-ia. A stamp of approval from us all.”
She blushes, adorably, and I smile. These guys are cute .
“The menu?” Ruby prods, reminding me that I am not fulfilling the duty I rock-paper-scissored Will to get.
“Sorry, Rubes,” I mutter, twisting back to my job. “Where were we?”
“Desserts,” she answers drily. “But I believe we were supposed to be at the appetizers.”
“Cake is a great appetizer,” Liam says.
“Is it now?” Amber asks, amused. When her husband appears confused by the question, she sighs into a smile. “Well, I guess since you’re treating, the appetizer is whatever you say it is.”
Eyes soft, Liam nods, capitulating. “Correct.”
Immediately, my stomach plummets. It’s one thing to go wild when I’m paying for it—literally and figuratively, considering the state of my bank account. It’s another thing entirely to go wild when someone else is paying, rich man or not.
My parents, being good middle-class Americans, taught me many lessons growing up, some good, some bad, but one that has always stuck on the good side is that you should never, ever, under any circumstances, order something expensive when someone else is paying.
The problem, of course, being that everything here is expensive.
The cheapest thing on the menu is a side of fries, and even that is double the price I’d be willing to pay anywhere else.
As everyone thanks Liam and Amber, I skim the menu prices, trying not to panic.
An appetizer, I decide, listing them off to Ruby, will have to do for me.
I move on to entree options for my bestie and I hope desperately that this isn’t the sort of fancy restaurant to give you itty-bitty portions and pretend that they’re acceptable for sustaining life.
“What are you getting?” Roman, who got shuffled into sitting in the seat directly to my left, asks lowly, eyes roving his own menu as I reach the end of reading Ruby her options.
Will takes over, answering her questions about different entrees and appetizers, and I’m forced to acknowledge that Roman has spoken to me.
“Um,” I hedge, glancing at the appetizers again. “The crab cakes.”
He hums, approving. “And?”
I scratch my nose. “Just the crab cakes.”
He does not hum, approving, at that. Slowly, his head turns toward me, eyes narrow. “Sweet?”
“I’m not that hungry,” I lie, defensive.
His eyes do not unnarrow. “You’re not that hungry?” he asks. “I saw you eat nothing for breakfast, then a crustless peanut butter and jelly sandwich for lunch. And that’s it. Did you, somehow, eat more than that when I wasn’t looking?”
I did not. It’s a miracle I even ate that much, honestly, considering we worked until noon covering the Saturday morning rush, then I had only two hours to finish an essay for school before I had to be ready for Amelia to pick me up to head to Enchanted Bridal.
I think I maybe had a handful of blueberries mid-shift—when I snuck into the freezer to bemoan the loss of Sol, who customers still ask about, even though he’s been gone for months and I don’t even work at the same Sweet & Salty location anymore as the one that he worked at.
Brothers, they haunt you, apparently.
“I had blueberries today, too,” I inform Roman. “Why are you policing my eating, anyway?”
“Food is care,” he recites. “Food is safety. Food is the fundamentals of our society, how it works, what it needs, how we survive. I’m not policing your anything. I’m doing the very bare minimum of making sure that you’re cared for and healthy, as you should be.”
As I don’t do myself, he means. Sanctimonious jerk .
“I think I know how hungry I am or am not,” I snip, flicking my menu shut. “I can, as ever, take care of myself.”
He stares at me for longer than is comfortable, wheels turning behind his soft blue eyes, then he shrugs, returning to his perusal of the food offerings. “Fine,” he says. “Be that way.”
“I will,” I return.
“Great,” he mutters.
“Great!” I chirp.
Table chatter lowers as our server appears, balancing an ornate silver drink tray on his hand, smiling as if it does not weigh four thousand pounds.
He doesn’t fool me, though. I’ve carried a mere four drinks on a tray before and felt like my arm was going to fall off.
Eight? It’s a miracle he’s still here to serve us our drinks and not in the hospital having his arm sewn back on.
“Stop ogling the waiter’s arms,” Roman whispers. “It’s rude.”
“You’re rude,” I retort, averting my gaze from his arms, which I was not ogling, thank you very much. I was appreciating his ability to do his job.
He grunts at me before pulling out a gracious nod for the waiter, who’s made his way to our side of the table and is creating a serious forced proximity situation between me and his biceps—which I appreciate on a professional level, because I’m not a senseless animal—as he sets our drinks beside our plates.
“Can I get you guys some appetizers?” he asks once his tray is cleared. He scans the table. “Perhaps the seared scallops?”
“We’ll have eight orders of your vegan strawberry cake,” Liam replies, tone brooking no comment on our dessert-before-dinner request. “And, after, I’ll have the butternut squash with kale risotto.”
Our arm-rich server nods, going around the table and taking our entrée orders without the use of a pen or paper. Presumably, he will store the information in his triceps, right next to his other useful work talents.
When he gets to Roman, I listen in awe as he goes against the very same teachings I know his parents gave to him, just as mine taught me, ordering, “The lamb rack Provenccal, please, with the black truffle mashed potatoes and roasted baby carrots, and an added side of pommes Anna.” His eyes flick to me, then away. “Plus the sautéed mushrooms.”
Probably this man has lost his absolute mind.
I mean, I know he likes food. Obviously he likes food. It’s, like, his entire life. But still .
As the waiter wanders to the kitchen, I lean into my seat neighbor, hissing, “Are you insane?”
He, insanely, shrugs, taking a sip of his water. “Might be. Who’s to say?”
Me. I’m to say. He’s insane!
“Relax, Sweet,” he mumbles. “Don’t worry about it.”
If we were not in the fanciest place I’ve been in, ever, surrounded by people who are mostly strangers to me, I would take the cloth napkin from around the silverware in front of him, wrap it around his stupid, insane neck, and I would strangle him.
As it is, I huff, turn to face the table at large, and commence pretending he does not exist. Something that becomes immediately impossible when he rests his arm along the back of my chair, trapping my hair between it and the chair top it’s tumbled over.
“I can’t move my head,” I inform him, flicking at his arm. “Move this.”
“I’m comfortable,” he says. “Here, compromise.”
Compromise, it turns out, is him removing his arm just to slide it under my hair to rest on the seat back, with my curls waterfalling over the back of the chair completely.
“Do you know what the definition of compromise is?” I ask, poking his hand in an attempt to tip it off my chair. It, sadly, does not move.
“Sure,” he answers. “It’s when I make an effort to make you more comfortable, and you say, Wow, thanks, Roman. You really were a great guy all along! ”
Um. “No,” I say before pulling from my championship spelling bee days. “The definition of compromise is an agreement or settlement of a dispute that is reached by each side making concessions. An agreement . This is not something I have agreed to at all.”
“Hmm,” he considers, settling his free elbow on the table as he turns more fully toward me. “You don’t agree that this is better than before, when I was accidentally pulling your hair and smashing your curls?”
“Better? Yes. Best? Absolutely not even a little bit.”
“Pity you feel that way,” he says. “I feel much different.”
He… what now?
“You’re being weird,” I observe. “Really weird.”
His eyes rove my face, then my hair, snagging on a lock falling over my cheekbone.
“I was really worried,” he says, finally.
“When you called. About Ruby, yes, but—and I know you might not believe this—but about you, too.” He sighs, and the lock of hair flutters under his gaze.
“I care about you, Sweet,” he mutters. “More than I think I realized, based on the scare this,”—he waves a hand through the air, encompassing the table, the bridal party, the restaurant—“gave me. I’m relieved to see that you’re safe and unharmed, but I think I just need…
a little more reassurance than what my eyes can provide.
Your hair on my arm gives me that. If you’d be willing to allow me this comfort, I’d appreciate it a lot. ”
I… don’t know how to respond to that. Vulnerability from Roman? Honest, open communication about his fears and needs in the wake of them? What am I supposed to do with that?
“Okay,” I whisper after an eternity of watching him watching me, waiting for an answer. “You can have my hair on your arm if it helps you,” I concede.
Magnanimous, me.