“He’s with me,” Gary says, appearing behind the guy, scaring us both to death. He gives me an uncertain smile. “Hi, Raine.”
He does have dirty blond hair, and the beginnings of a goatee. When he smiles, his teeth are very white and straight, which reminds me that one of Jason’s front teeth is a bit chipped—and fucking stop it, Raine.
I follow Gary to a corner table, feeling weird because his face is as unfamiliar to me as the faces of the waiters and every other person in the restaurant.
The tables are covered in white cloth, and when we sit down, there’s a red rose in the vase between us, and a lit candle.
Uh. It’s so… romantic. And I’m sitting with this stranger who’s smiling hopefully at me—or maybe nervously? hard to tell—looking at a menu with names of dishes I can’t recognize. I honestly can’t remember the last time I was so out of my fucking element.
I lick my lips and find them dry.
Calm the fuck down, I tell myself. You’re here to have a good time, not have a fucking panic attack. It’s just dinner.
Okay.
Good.
Damn right.
I mean, if you’d told me three years ago I’d be sitting with another man in a restaurant with a rose between us checking the menu and thinking of dating, I’d laugh until I puked.
Those weren’t the best days of my life—when I realized wanting other men instead of girls wasn’t gonna go away, despite what my aunt kept yelling at me and despite all the praying she made me do at night. When I realized that wanting other men isn’t acceptable, despite what you hear sometimes. That it’s despicable. And unnatural. And the devil’s work.
Sinner… a familiar voice chants in the back of my head, and I shiver.
She was wrong. So wrong.
I thought I’d never forgive Ocean for sending me to live with her for all those godawful years, but he had no idea. Still doesn’t know everything that went down while I lived with our aunt in a small town near Columbus in Indiana. And it wasn’t his fault.
Or mine. I’m not a sinner, I remind myself, I’m just—
“Too quiet,” Gary says, putting down his menu and giving me a perfect smile. His eyes are pale, maybe gray, and did I mention he’s growing a goatee?
He is. I’m not a huge fan of goatees, but whatever.
“I’m trying to decide between stigghiola and…” I check the menu for an
other crazy-sounding dish. “Rosticciana. My favorites.”
His brows go up. “You seriously like stigghiola?” He totally misses my sarcasm. “I thought nobody did but me.”
I swallow back a bark of crazy laughter. “Why?”
“Well, it is lamb gut wrapped around a skewer and roasted.” He looks at me expectantly.
“Yeah,” I say. “I’m taking that.”
Can’t be worse than what I’ve eaten as a child at the trailer park when our parents forgot to feed us for days on end and Ocean would hunt down anything edible for us. We’d steal dog and cat food from bowls set on porches, eat from the trash, and beg for leftovers.
This is a fancy-ass restaurant. I bet whatever they serve won’t taste bad.
But maybe I should pick something else. Just because I had to eat trash as a kid doesn’t mean I can’t eat what a normal person would. “Know what? I changed my mind. I’ll take a carbonara.”
Can’t go wrong with pasta, right? And I don’t like him thinking we have this love of stigghiola in common.
His face scrunches up. “Yeah?”
Yeah.