“Oh, believe me, I know,” Emily says, and they both laugh like it’s hilarious that Emily ordered an entire menu just for spite.
“Share it with your family and friends. There’s probably going to be a lot of boxes for you to take out, so have them deliver it! It will be easier for you.”
What. On. Fucking. Planet. Fucking. Earth. Is. Happening?
“Be a dear, Asher, and pick up the tab.” Granny grips my hand and squeezes. “I’m going to slip out the back and beat all those farging photographers at their own game. I’ve been walking around in disguise all day, but it wouldn’t have done to show up to dinner wearing a sack and a wig, walking all hunched over.”
“Please tell me that’s not how you went out earlier.”
“I did! That’s why it’s so great to have pink hair. Everyone looks for it. I slap a head of gray curls on and bam! I’m no longer Julie Louise Paris. I’m just some other old lady. And I came prepared.” She cackles at the next bit. “I bought some fast fashion and put it on!”
“You didn’t!” Emily gasps. “That’s hardly ethical.”
“Well, don’t worry. I got it from a used site. Someone was selling quite a bit of their wardrobe for almost nothing. It was quite the score. Is it so bad if it’s second hand?”
Emily groans. “I’m not sure. If you saved it from a landfill, then maybe it’s not so bad.”
“I most certainly did then.” Granny nods, first at me, then at Emily. “Enjoy your night, dear. I’m flying back to Paris tomorrow.” Next, she turns and faces Emily. “And you. Enjoy your desserts. You’re quite an unexpected delight. Lots of pluck. I like that.” She stands, spryer than a twenty-year-old. “Here.” She places something in Emily’s hand. “This is for you.” Then, she practically sprints off toward the back of the restaurant before either of us can say anything.
Emily glances at whatever it is Granny just handed her, and I swear she goes pale as she quickly tucks it into her purse. I have no idea what just happened, though that’s pretty much been my mantra during the entire dinner.
“What was—” I start, but I’m interrupted as our server shows up to clear away the plates.
“How would you like those desserts? I’m assuming you’d like them packaged up?”
Emily looks a little bit guilty now. “Uh, oh. I…could I get them delivered?”
The poor server looks as confused as a camel in the Arctic. They don’t have camels up there, do they? But she recovers fast. “Oh. Certainly. You can just give me your information, and I’ll have it taken care of.”
“Thanks.” Emily rattles off her address, and the lady writes it down.
I whip out a handful of cash and pass it over. There’s enough of a tip there to make up for our unconventional dinner. She walks off, a renewed and pleasant expression on her face.
“What did she give you?” I ask, uninterrupted this time.
It’s not my imagination. Emily truly does look pale. “You know,” she whispers. “I think I’m going to do like your granny did and sneak out the back way and get into one of those taxis waiting out front. I will ask the the staff to request that one be brought out back. All those photographers were pretty intense, and if they’re still out there, I’d rather not face them. You should probably wait five minutes and do the same. Beat them at their own game.”
“You’re assuming they’re not covering the back way.”
“Oh. Shit.” Emily clutches her purse tight. The urge to try and wrestle it away from her and look at what Granny passed over is so strong that I have to fight it down. Because it would certainly make me the biggest asshole of the century. “Well, I guess I’ll take my chances.”
“Emily…”
“What?” She pauses, half out of her chair.
She looks like an ethereal goddess in my granny’s dress. Although she’d look just as gorgeous in sweats and a baggy, stained t-shirt, I’m sure. I want to say something, the right thing, the thing that would fix things, but it just won’t come. I don’t know if it even exists.
“Can we talk?” I let that pathetic statement hang in the air.
“I…” Emily hesitates. She’s still levitating out of her chair. “Tomorrow. But…but not about this. About us. It’s safer this way. To not get involved like we were. For both of us.”
“Safer?”
“They’re probably going to deliver the desserts to my house soon, so I should probably be there,” Emily mutters as she flies out of her chair and scuttles off toward the back. I want to follow her, and I want to beg her to tell me what happened, why she’s suddenly running from me, metaphorically and literally.
Our server magically appears back at the table. She has something in her hand, which I realize is the receipt for the dinner. I don’t even glance at it. I do realize the lady—god, I should have gotten her name, I’m sure she said it at some point, probably before the meal—is giving me some sort of sympathetic look, so maybe I look as shitty as I feel. I know that in my suit, I look just fine, but my face or eyes or something is giving away my inner turmoil. In addition to the shit sandwich of a day, there was something distinctly not right about dinner.