Say You'll Remember Me(50)

Castaway was perched in the hills of Burbank with a gorgeous view of the San Fernando Valley and downtown Los Angeles. It had romantic nooks and firepits and a koi pond. It had been there since 1962. I loved eating there. It was the location of a lot of happy memories for me. Grandma and Grandpa’s fiftieth wedding anniversary, right before he died. Birthdays and Jeneva’s baby shower.

It was weird that Xavier took me here of all places. And fitting too. Because really, if I could, I’d want to go with him to all the places I loved. Try to show him my memories so he could understand them, know what I was talking about when I brought them up, recognize the locations and the people and the things I talked about.

Not that that was going to be much help now.

The hostess seated us inside at a tiny booth against the window. It was perfect. We’d get to see the sun set and the lights of the city twinkle in the distance.

“I hope this is okay,” he said as they poured us water. “We could have sat outside, but I didn’t want you to be cold. I didn’t bring your Barbie towel.”

“Horrible planning on your part,” I said, studying the menu.

He gave his own menu an amused smirk.

A sommelier came by to offer us a wine list. There was a candle on the table and fresh flowers in a tiny vase and all of a sudden I realized how this place looked.

Everyone here was either celebrating something—or on a date.

I set my menu down. I had been so excited about coming here that I didn’t think about how romantic this restaurant was.

Xavier looked up at me and noticed the suspicious glances I was giving the room. “What’s wrong?”

“This isn’t a date,” I said.

“I know…”

“Okay, I just want to be sure that we’re on the same page.”

“It can’t be a date unless both people agree it’s a date. It’s not exactly something that can happen without your consent.”

“Okay… because this place is really nice.”

“Yes.”

“So why did you want to eat here?”

“For the view,” he said.

I studied him warily. “It’s expensive.”

“It’s cheaper than a helicopter.”

I narrowed my eyes. “I’m paying for myself,” I said.

The humor dropped from his expression. “I think I should pay for dinner. I chose the restaurant—”

“Yeah, and you drove and you’re paying for parking. I’ll pay for my food.”

He opened his mouth to protest and I cut him off. “Spare me the story about how you bought Chris dinner at an expensive romantic scenic restaurant and how that wasn’t a date. I’m paying for myself. That is a hard rule for me. If you can’t agree, we go to Carl’s Jr.”

“Can I pay at Carl’s Jr.?”

“No.”

We were having a small silent standoff when the server came to take our order. I asked for a separate check and it ended the discussion.

He looked somewhat defeated. I decided I wasn’t going to read too much into that. He was a gentleman, he’d picked an expensive restaurant, and so to be polite he wanted to pay. This wasn’t a date, it was just manners.

“So,” I said as the server collected our menus, “what seminars are you doing at the conference?”

“You were going to tell me a story about the Dart?” he said, changing the subject.

“Oh yeah! Oh my God, this is so funny. I was on my way to the pharmacy—Mom’s on a new medication. That’s a whole other story I have to tell you. And when I turned right, the horn honked.”

He arched an eyebrow.

“Yeah. It honked every time I turned right for two miles. So embarrassing. It shorted out or something. I had to pull over. I opened the hood and some guy popped up within five seconds and disconnected it for me.”

“So you have no horn,” he deadpanned.

A server delivered my spicy margarita and I shrugged, taking a sip. “I gotta get it fixed.”

He was shaking his head at me. I smiled around my straw.

“I really hate you driving that car,” he said.

“The power steering goes out when you run out of gas. Ask me how I know this.”

He gave me a disapproving look and I grinned at him.

“What happened to the glug glug system?” he asked.

“I had the music blasting.” I took another sip. “Couldn’t hear it.”

He looked unamused.

“The drive shaft fell off in the In-N-Out drive-through.”

He rubbed his forehead. “Stop.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re giving me anxiety.”

I laughed and it made him crack a smile.

Then I cleared my throat. “I like the five-o’clock-shadow thing.”

He put a hand to his chin. “I grow it out in the winter. Shave it in the spring. Your hair looks nice. You changed it.”

I touched the ends self-consciously. “Yeah. I let Tristan layer it. I’d be afraid he was going to cut it all off, but he’s too cocky to do anything badly.”

He chuckled.

Then we slipped into silence. The contemplative gaze was back.

The gaze should be illegal.