Ritual - Palm South University

“What are you in the mood for?”

I shrug. “Sushi?”

Gavin grins, stepping out of the way and holding the car door open for me. “I know just the place.”“Why do I feel like I should be scared for my life or, at the very least, that I will be hugging my toilet later tonight?” I ask, eyeballing the dingy, roughed-up exterior of the brick building Gavin has guided us to. It’s small and tucked between a bicycle shop and a barber shop in the part of downtown my parents specifically told me to stay away from when I first started school at PSU. The flickering neon sign above the blacked-out door says something in Japanese, and under it, a simple white banner reads SUSHI in black, all-caps English.

“Trust me, this will be the best sushi you’ll ever have in your life,” Gavin says, holding the door open for me. As soon as he opens it, we’re hit with the thumping base of electronic music that would be better suited for a club than for any kind of restaurant, and a large group of people smushed inside, waiting to be seated. It’s dim throughout the restaurant, with black lights and disco balls sending flares of light across the room.

I arch a brow, but don’t move otherwise.

Gavin chuckles, reaching out for my hand. “Come on. Have a little faith.”

Something about his smile makes my chest warm and fuzzy, and I smile in return, letting him take my hand in his and guide me inside. We mutter excuse me to several groups, squirming our way to the hostess stand.

Then, Gavin surprises me by speaking Japanese to the hostess, who smiles at him like she knows him — or like she wants to sleep with him, I can’t be sure which — before leading us to a corner booth all the way in the back, where the music is a little softer and we have a view of the entire room.

Another surprise to me is that the place is packed. Every single table is taken, even though it’s after eight now, and the table we’re seated at was roped off like it was being held for a VIP. Judging by the long wait at the front, Gavin isn’t the only one who’s a fan of the sushi here.

I shrug off my jacket once we’re seated, folding it once and laying it next to me in the booth. It’s very rarely cold in South Florida, but we’ve been blessed with a cool front that leaves the evenings just chilly enough to wear the jackets and scarves we wear approximately three times a year and leave buried in our closet to stare at longingly for the rest of it.

A waiter swings by and asks what we’d like to drink, to which Gavin responds for me, ordering us both a water and a bottle of saki to share.

“So, you speak Japanese?” I ask when the waiter leaves.

“Surprised?”

“Very,” I admit. “I take it you frequent this place a lot, judging by the fact that they gave us a roped-off booth.”

“I roomed with the owner’s son for a couple of months when I lived in Tokyo.”

“You lived in Tokyo?”

“Briefly,” Gavin says, shrugging as if it’s no big deal. “I was thinking about teaching English there, so I stayed with a friend who was doing just that. Wasn’t really my thing,” he confessed. “But I loved the food, and the culture.”

The way he said that, with a shit-eating grin and a wink, made me roll my eyes.

“Let me guess — culture is code for girls?”

“You said it, not me,” Gavin deflects, holding up the menu with the writing facing me. It’s just a simple, half-sheet of paper with a couple dozen items, and the menu is hand-written and photocopied. “Now, what you need to know about this place is that you can’t go wrong with anything you order,” he says. “But, if you really want to wet your panties, order the mackerel nigiri, the otoro sashimi, and the moon phase roll.”

I laugh, folding my hands over my own menu rather than looking at it. “Okay. I trust you.”

“Do you?” he challenges, and I love the way his eyes light up, the way his lazy smile spreads on his face.

“To order sushi for me, yes. To be respectful in group therapy or actually show up to take me on the date you asked me on?” I shrug. “Jury’s still out.”

“Hey, we’re here, aren’t we?” Gavin argues, gesturing to the restaurant around us.

“Just a few weeks late.”

“That’s fair,” he says, and then the waiter drops off our water and saki, and Gavin pours two small ceramic cups with the hot liquid before passing one to me. “To overdue dates and the beautiful women who concede to them.”

I roll my eyes, taking a sip before hugging the small cup between my hands. The smell and taste is delightful, and the warmth of the cup in my cool palms makes me feel oddly cozy inside this dim restaurant that could be a club.