Now an official couple, I thought I’d stop overanalyzing his gestures, but I start thinking way too much, mostly about the differences in our relationship. Sometimes I wish for a remote control to pause my brain. Just for a moment of peace.
The waiter returns with a basket of “premium” bread. Those were his words when he talked about the loaf, and he looked all snotty about it too. Maybe he expected our eyes to widen in realization that we were at an expensive restaurant—with premium bread and pricy ravioli, a place not built for young adults with ones or twos beginning their age.
“Are you ready to order?” he asks with sucked in cheeks, reminding me a little too much of my mother.
I bounce between Capellini alla Checca and Filletto di Branzino. Pasta or sea bass? Lo notices my indecision and says, “Give us a few more minutes.”
The waiter shifts his weight. Uh-oh. I know that look. He’s about to get mean. “This isn’t a Mexican restaurant where you can eat free chips and then leave. The bread costs money.” Oh, the premium bread costs money! Who would have thought? “You have to order eventually.”
Lo snaps his menu closed and he spreads his hands out on the table, gripping the sides. He looks about ready to flip the damn thing over. His father would, I realize. The thought steals my breath. I don’t want to compare them. Ever. “I said ‘give us a few more minutes.’ Did I ever insinuate that I wouldn’t pay?”
“Lo,” I warn, his knuckles whitening. Please don’t flip the table.
The waiter glances at Lo’s hands and then the manager finds his way to our table. Eyes from other linen-lined booths and candle-set tables have drifted over to us, staring at the spectacle.
“Is there a problem?” the manager asks, slightly older than the waiter, both dressed in uniform blacks.
“No,” Lo answers first, peeling his fingers off the table. He takes out his wallet. “We’d like a bottle of your most expensive champagne to go. We’ll be leaving after that.” He hands the manager his black American Express card.
The slack-jawed waiter straightens up. “That’s the Pernod-Ricard Perrier Jouet. It’s over four thousand dollars.”
“That’s it?” Lo says with the tilt of his head, feigning shock.
The manager places a tight hand on the waiter’s shoulder. “I’ll get that right out for you, Mr. Hale.” Ooh, he even used his name from the credit card. Bonus points for him. He ushers the waiter out of our sight, and Lo looks about ready to break the neck of a chicken—or the man who just shuffled away with his tail between his legs.
“So we’re not eating here,” I say, adding up what just happened.
“Would you like to eat here?” he almost shouts, unbuttoning the top of his black-collared shirt.
“Not really.” My cheeks blossom with an ugly red tint the longer people stare.
He rolls up his sleeves. “I had no idea that respect needed to be earned in a fucking restaurant.”
“Can you stop messing with your shirt?”
“Why?” he asks, calming down. He scrutinizes my body language. “Is it turning you on?”
I glare. “No. It looks like you’re about ready to run into the kitchen and beat the crap out of our waiter.” Which is comical. Lo avoids most fights and would be more apt to scream in your face, verbally attacking, than throw a punch.
He rolls his eyes but stops messing with his sleeves per my request.
Only a minute passes before the manager returns with a gold bottle and the American Express card. Lo stands, gestures for me to rise, and he grabs both and shoots everyone a scalding look on his way out, even the manager who did nothing more than apologize and offer a grateful thanks.
I slip my hands into my long woolen coat. “Nola isn’t supposed to be here for another hour,” I tell him.
“We’ll walk for a while. The taco stand is ten blocks away. Think you can make it?”
I nod. My short heels already stick in divots along the cracked sidewalk, but I try not to fuss about it. “Are you okay?” I ask him. The bottle swings in his hand, but he reaches down for mine with the other, holding tightly and warming my chilly palm.
“I just hate that,” he says, wiping his sweaty brow. “I hate that we’re still treated like children even though we’re in our twenties. I hate that I had to pull out my wallet and buy respect.” We stop at a cross-walk, a big red hand flashing at us, telling us to stay put. “I feel like my father.”