Chapter Ten
Saturday is unseasonably warm for this time in the fall. I’m on my way to meet Matthew for, whatever this is, which I’ve resolved to just not try to define. Just go with it.
Walker’s is in an outdoor mall area with several other food places.
All of these venues surround a common area with tables nestled under the manicured trees around a small green belt and a large, multi-tier fountain.
I see Matthew has claimed a table near the railing overlooking the top-tier of the large water feature, sparkling clear blue beyond.
He waves a two-handed wave when he sees me, but doesn’t leave his seat.
As I arrive, it’s clear that he’s snagged us the best table in the courtyard and we are going to hold onto it for dear life.
He stands, offers a hand and a jovial hello, and when I shake his hand, he pulls me in for a tight hug.
His arm around my back is warm, and I find myself memorizing the sensation.
“I got us a good table,” he’s beaming, breathing heavy through his words like the hug has winded him.
“It’s great,” I say, looking over the rail at the water below. The sunlight is sparkling through the water on the blue tiles. “I’ve never been here during the day. It’s beautiful.”
“Have a seat.” He motions to the chair next to his, both on the same side of the round table facing the fountain.
Matthew looks casual, but nice. I realize I’ve never seen him on a day unrelated to work.
He’s wearing dark denim jeans and a short-sleeve button-down with a small print.
My eyes keep wandering to where the sleeves snug up against his moving biceps.
He has a gold chain around his wrist that rattles along the strong muscle of his forearm. His broad smile is contagious.
Matthew is a talker, bringing never-ending laughs and stories and basic hilarity to everything, but for what seems like forever, we sit and say nothing. We just sort of smile at each other. I notice that I can’t look away as we smile in the silence, which doesn’t seem to derail me this time.
“We should order,” he finally looks away, still smiling.
“If you know what you want, I’ll go in and order, you can hold our table.
” I feel like Matthew’s focus on holding our table is out of character for him.
From the little time we’ve spent together, I know he’s not the planner, relying always on spontaneity and random luck to drive things.
But having this table feels hugely preplanned and scripted.
I don’t know what to make of this. “I grabbed a menu when we got here,” he says, fingering a paper on the table, which I hadn’t noticed before, sliding it toward me.
Again, the thoughtfulness is transfixing.
“I’ve heard their quiche is spectacular,” I say without picking up the menu. “That’s what I’m having. And some coffee.”
He starts laughing which is immediately contagious and he confesses that he’s been craving their quiche, too.
He slides his hand across the table, and grabs my forearm gently, the hairs on my arm rise to the touch.
“You joining me today is the perfect excuse I needed for trying their quiche.” He squeezes once and sits back, “What type of quiche were you thinking?” He has a lifelong laugh that warms the morning.
I can’t stop smiling, and suddenly can’t make eye contact with him.
“Surprise me,” I hear myself saying, “Order two different kinds and then we can try both.” When I look back at him, his smile broadens like I’ve said something that has solved the world’s problems. My growing smile is becoming almost painful.
With a shudder, he’s immediately standing as the chair slides across the concrete with a metal rumble and he’s turning toward the restaurant.
“Great idea. I’m feeling adventurous, so I may just go crazy in there.
Be right back.” He bounces as he walks, and there’s a child-like speed to his step.
It feels like he’s talking to himself and then when he reaches the door, he pulls it open and looks back at me with a huge smile.
I feel like I’ve just freed him to execute some sinister plan.
I watch the sunlight sparkle through the water below, trying to piece together what I’m feeling.
I keep surprising myself, like my world-view is shifting in ways I can’t predict or understand.
Oddly, I’m not terrified by it, deciding that I’m going to ride the wave of whatever-this-is that’s happening around me.
I feel a molten surge of contentment and breathe in the late morning air, listening to the water splash in the fountain.
Before long, Matthew is back, carrying two cups, and I discover that his quiet phase has ended.
“I wasn’t sure what coffee you wanted, so I just ordered what you had when I ran into you the other day at Market Street. Hope that’s okay.”
My brain is spiraling. Market Street? The other day? And then suddenly I’m floored: that was my pay-it-forward day and I was ordering so many different types of coffee that I don’t even remember what I was drinking when I ran into him. He noticed what I was drinking?
He slides a small cup across the table at me and the little sticker says “cortado.” I have zero proof that he got it right, but the idea that he would notice such a detail from our short encounter straightens my spine and sends a chill up the back of my neck.
I think I’m trembling a little as I grab the cup.
“Thank you.” My smile won’t let me sip it yet, but I make an effort.
And then Matthew’s himself again, an endless jabber of quiche types and styles and his internal debate about which ones to get and how he forgot to find if I have any food allergies and so he just took a risk and ordered knowing it’ll all work out.
He’s got a sideways glance at me when he hints at the type he’s ordered for me, like I’m in for a big shock.
And then we’re both laughing about quiche flavors and types and ingredients. I’m lost in it.
Before we know it, a server is setting two plates of food in front of us as she declares, “Apple, sharp cheddar, and crispy prosciutto” and “Zucchini, mint, and feta.” I’m suddenly enthralled and nervous at the same time.
Which one is whose? How do we share? How did he select these combinations?
Surely he’s not expecting to have a feed-each-other-a-bite moment.
I feel my palms getting sticky and my face flushing.
The slice with apple and cheddar is nearest me, so I slide it toward me gently, saying, “This sounds so good. I can’t wait to try it.” He spins his plate slightly, revealing the sprig of mint leaf that garnishes his dish. Both plates are beautiful.
Matthew never stops talking as I slide my fork through the pie and try it.
It’s divine. It’s both sweet and savory from the apple and the bacon.
“You must try this,” I’m trying to say politely with food in my mouth and I’m stopping myself from slicing off a piece and holding it up for him to try. The thought scares me.
He, likewise, has stopped talking long enough to savor a bite and his face is awash with pleasure and he’s pointing at his plate, offering me a taste.
Before we know it, we’ve both broadened our quiche experience and are commenting on how we need to come back another time for another quiche adventure.
“To trying new things!” Matthew holds up his coffee cup between bites and toasts our meal together.
“To quiche adventures.” I smile, clinking our cardboard vessels. A warm layer folds through my core.
We laugh so much I hardly notice that the tables around us are clearing out. There must be a lull between the morning crowd and the lunch rush because the courtyard around us now has only a smattering of tables filled. Servers are wiping down the ones around us.
“I love fountains,” he says, exhaling and staring into the water below.
“It’s so peaceful, like it soothes your soul.” My gaze turns to his, but he doesn’t look away from the water. “Let’s make a wish,” I say.
His head snaps to me. “A wish?”
“Yeah.” I start digging through my pocket for change. “You know, like throw a coin in the fountain and make a wish.” I fumble several coins in my hand.
“Well, Liam,” he breathes at me, “What is it that you wish for?” He’s got a suspicious look on his face like he’s unraveling a mystery.
“My real wish? I can’t tell you that or it won’t come true, but I can tell you my second-place wish.” I hold out two coins for him to take and drop them in his open palm. We both start rolling them around our fingertips instinctively.
“Of course. Just your second-place wish.”
I find myself staring into the green of his eyes, swimming in the light from the fountain. “I wish that I could keep some moments in my pocket, to be able to pull them out later. You know, the really good ones.” I smile so big my teeth are drying out, my hand flipping the coin over and over.
He smiles back, but doesn’t speak. Then his smile grows bigger with an exhale as he says, “I wish for a corn dog. With mustard.” We both start laughing so hard it’s embarrassing.
“A corn dog?”
“That’s my second-place wish. My first-place wish I can’t tell you or it won’t come true.
” He smiles at me coyly, looking over his nose like the absence of details in his statement might mean something I should sense.
He holds a half-wink for a beat and then we are both laughing. My ears are turning red, I think.
“Well now I’ve changed my mind, I’m also wishing for a corn dog,” I say through the laughter.
Matthew leans forward, gripping the arm of my chair so hard it shakes, “I don’t even like corn dogs.” He blurts a guffaw, my chair is shaking, “I just love mustard and you can’t just eat mustard by itself. You need to have something to go with it.”
“Hence the corn dog.” We’re laughing so hard it feels natural that I’ve placed my hand over his on the arm of my chair. I feel his fingers grip the armrest tighter, the cords of his muscle in my palm.