I try to focus on what Miranda is saying.
“I wouldn’t have known you were interested, especially after Rent. Remember how you ran out?”
“I didn’t run out.” A smile begins a slow creep across my mouth and I stir the sugar in my tea with the skinny straw inside the glass. “I was having a moment.”
“A moment?” she teases. “Is that what they’re calling it now?”
“Listen, I’m not good at this sort of thing, if you haven’t figured that out yet.”
She leans forward in her seat, cleavage plumping a bit, wolfish grin on her face—the flirt. “Oh, I’ve figured it out. I just can’t figure out why.”
Why?
“You’re tall, you’re cute, you seem to be—” Miranda stops talking and cocks her head. “What do you keep staring at?” Her neck turns and it’s then she sees the young couple watching us. “Are they staring at us?”
Yes, 100% they are, but I don’t tell her that. “I think so.”
She looks back at me. “Um…why?”
We’re interrupted by a server, who sets bread on the table in front of us, notepad propped on her forearm, pen poised between the fingers on her other hand.
She glances expectantly between the two of us, waiting on Miranda.
“I’ll have the short rib risotto.” She closes the menu she’s holding and hands it back to Beverly, ordering soup instead of salad. “I always order risotto if it’s on a menu,” she confides in me as I’m about to tell good ol’ Bev here I’ll take the filet, medium, with mushrooms and broccoli on the side. Wedge salad, dressing on the side.
“So what were we talking about?” She’s squeezing the lemon into her drink. Stirs it with a spoon then rests it on the tea cup saucer. “Oh, that’s right—we were discussing the reason you ran out of Rent. Was it something I did? Because if I offended you in any way, I am so sorry.”
“Offended me? You?”
“Well what other reason could there be? I know I’m a bit much sometimes, but I didn’t think I was that bad. You can tell me—am I too bold? Be honest.”
“You’re not too bold. You were being…” I scan the word bank in my head, settling on “Kind.”
“Kind?” Her little laugh is adorable, but sardonic. “That is not what I would call giving you a full frontal last Saturday.”
“Full frontal?” I almost choke on the bread in my mouth as I attempt to swallow it whole. Bad idea. I cough, covering the action with the napkin from my lap.
“Sure, I’d had just enough alcohol to put the moves on you.”
“Put the moves on me?” I can’t stop myself from repeating her words.
“Duh. What did you think I was doing?”
“Hugging me because you felt bad.”
“Well, sure, you looked miserable, but I also wanted to know what you felt like.” She leans back, satisfied. “And I found out.”
What I felt like? What did I feel like? Now I’m dying to know.
A flash lights up the dining room and I clench my jaw to stop it from ticking.
“Did someone just take a picture?”
“Yeah.”
“Aww, date night!” Miranda nods, dismissing this as normal. “I bet they took pictures of their food, too, and posted it on Insta.”
I don’t bother correcting her, letting her live inside her little bubble before I have to burst it. And I will have to. The young couple who just snapped our picture isn’t the only couple who’s noticed me at the edge of the room—they’re just the first people to do something about it.
Comes with the job, but it’s not always my favorite part of it. Especially not when I’m already treading on thin ice with Miranda for the truths I’ve kept from her.
This is yet another one and it’s going to catch up to me.
Soon.
Tonight.
“Should we ask the waiter to take our picture too?”
Um, no? “Sure, if you want.”
This seems to make her happy because she grins. “Maybe not now—when we leave? How does that sound?”
“Sure.” I relax a bit into my chair. “Tell me more about this full frontal business.”
She rolls her eyes, dark black lashes fluttering. “It was a total ruse. You weren’t going to get handsy, so I was going to get handsy. Only—it freaked you out.” Her laugh is loud enough to draw more attention, but I grin, despite myself.
“I’m not good at flirting.” I am a master of the obvious.
“What are you good at then?”
I can’t decide if this is an innuendo—an invitation to begin a sex conversation—or an innocent question about my secret skills.
I go with the latter. “I’m good at math. And I’m good at…” My throat clears. “Sports.” No time like the present to start dropping hints.
“Which sports?” She only breaks eye contact when Jacob—the other server—sets down our soup and salad.
I wait for him to leave. “I used to play football, but then in high school, I focused on baseball.” I force the words out painfully, reciting them like a requiem.
“Baseball? That’s nice.” She pauses just long enough to take a tiny sip of soup, testing out how hot it is. Hums. “This is good. I love bisque—no places I go ever have it.”
I peacock a bit, glad to make her happy with a simple tureen of soup.
“So you’re good at math, sports, and what else?” She busies herself with the bisque, adding a tad bit of pepper. “I want to hear more about you—what do you love doing when you have the weekend off?”
I have entire seasons off—whole months, I want to point out—but I keep that information to myself. Although, now is just as good a time as any to tell her I’m a professional athlete.
“It depends on the time of year,” I admit honestly. “But usually in my free time I work out to stay in shape, and—obviously you know I like collecting things. Baseball cards is only one of my collections. I also love vintage pennants and signed baseballs.”
“Wow. You really do love baseball.”
“Yeah.” I flush, digging into my salad, sliding a mushroom onto my fork for the perfect bite. “What about you?”
“What am I good at? Um—I used to be a runner, but I haven’t gone in ages. Winter had me all kinds of unmotivated, but when I jog, I feel so much better. Uh, let’s see…I paint? And I love decorating. I think I’m good at it?”
“What do you collect?”
“I love antique malls. Architectural remnants. My parents have a place about forty minutes north of here with a shed and they let me store things there. Someday, I’m going to build a house and use the things I’ve collected.”
If she likes old things, she would probably hate my house with its polished stone, echoing hallways, and cold tile floors.
I hate it too, if I’m being real.
“What are you thinking about? You look so serious all of a sudden.”
“I hate my house,” I blurt out.
First, Miranda looks shocked. Then, she bursts out laughing. Snorts. “Oh my god, that is so random. What made you say that?”