“I think the lomo saltado looks good,” I tried.
“Yeah, I was looking at that too,” Ricky said wearily. He didn’t look up from his menu.
“We should get different things, though, so that we can try each other’s dishes,” I said. “That’s how me and Michelle always do it, anyway—”
“Good thing I’m not Michelle,” Ricky interrupted, and I looked up, taken aback by his snippiness. I had seen Ricky hurt, defeated, nervous . . . but never angry. I hardly recognized the emotion on him; it didn’t suit him. It turned his normally emotive face placid, ironed the ever-present creases at the corners of his eyes and mouth smooth. I frowned, taking a sip of my water. My ice clinked loudly against the glass as I set it down, desperately loud against the silence.
As if I’d summoned him, a short man dressed in all black swept up to our table. I never thought I could be so happy to see our waiter.
“Will you be having any drinks tonight?” he asked. He went over the day’s specials, and I paid rapt attention, asking way too many questions about dishes I knew I had no intention of ordering, all to avoid looking toward the glacial being sitting across from me. When our waiter was done with his spiel, I pretended to consider before putting in the order I’d decided on already.
“Nothing for me,” Ricky said.
“Really?” I said. “You were just talking about the pisco sour . . .”
“I’m ready to put in my food order, though.” He gestured to me, his face carefully blank. “The lady?”
I understood then what was happening. Ricky was trying to cut our date short. I had made a small, true comment, and he was reacting by throwing a silent tantrum.
“I think I need a little extra time,” I said, giving the waiter my most saccharine smile.
“Extra time. Seems like you need a lot of that,” Ricky said. He took a sip of his water, his lips quirking up into an approximation of a smile as his eyes flickered up to hold mine. “You know. Since you’re always late.”
Sensing tension and wanting no part of it, our waiter chuckled nervously.
“Okay,” he said. “I’ll come back in a few minutes.”
When he scuttled out of earshot, I folded my arms. Ricky did the same. We glared at each other from across the table for a full minute, listening to the din of clinking glasses and spirited conversation.
“Why are you being a jerk all of a sudden?” I snapped, breaking our silence.
“I’m being a jerk?” Ricky said with a scoff. “You show up twenty minutes late to dinner, acting salty from the second you walk in, and then you pick a fight and act like I’m the asshole for not letting you get away with it.”
Oh, this little . . .
“Letting me get away with what?” I spoke through my teeth, trying and nearly failing to keep my voice down. “I’m sorry I was late. But you looked like you got yourself some attention from elsewhere in that time, so, honestly, I don’t feel that bad.”
Ricky looked flummoxed. I watched as the puzzle pieces connected in his mind, and then he shook his head vigorously.
“Polly?” he said. “You’re jealous of Polly?” He let out a huff of incredulous laughter. “She’s old enough to be my mother!”
“So? She’s still hot,” I admitted begrudgingly. And she still looked at me like I didn’t matter.
Our waiter swept by our table, placing a plate of ceviche at the center.
“Courtesy of Ms. Pollyanne Wagner,” he said. I met Ricky’s shocked eyes over his arm, my eyebrows raised as if to say I told you so. When the waiter swept away, he dropped his head onto his hands in shock. Then his shoulders began to shake.
Whatever ire I’d felt before deflated at the sight of him like this, laughing over a small bowl of seduction ceviche, dabbing at his eyes with the corner of his cloth napkin. There was no way he was this clueless. Ricky had such aggressive hot-guy energy.* His ain’t-shitness was staggering. Had he really thought that Polly Pocket hadn’t been trying to get into his pants?
“This is hilarious,” Ricky said. He pushed the plate toward me. “Here,” he said. “You take the first bite.”
“Um, what if it’s drugged?” I said.
Ricky let out a bark of laughter.
“Are you accusing the kitchen of participating in the drugging of their customers?” Then he leaned forward conspiratorially. “Come on. Polly’s probably watching. Let’s give her a show.”