Good Pet

“Fine,” answers Tommy, sounding and looking touched, though I see he’s trying to keep some of it from me. “But I will find a way to pay you back, Melissa.” He looks right at me, his eyes glowing strangely, yet beautifully, in the more muted light of the evening. “You’ve done way more than I ever expected or dreamed any woman would do for me.”

And with that, I’m breathless. I’m speechless, as we make our way to my favorite restaurant in town, with a man I wasn’t ever expecting — or expecting to need — as my companion.

Call it what you will, but the restaurant I take Tommy to, a restaurant called la cuillère du petit prince — the little Prince’s spoon — is one of the best French restaurants in all of America, let alone Manhattan.

Ever since our lunch was cut short, and he seemed interested and excited by French cuisine, I’ve been hungering for more — more French food for Tommy to try, as well as more actual time with him, without Ms. Vanacore or my ex-boyfriend interrupting.

The moment we walk in, I’m greeted by the hostess. Because I know Tommy likes it, I speak in French to her. I ask for a table for two in one of the nicer, more open spaces, and told her that we will be ordering a multi-course experience.

She nods, tells me that will be fine, and shows us to our seats. There, we are almost immediately greeted by a waiter, who runs down the wine list, in French as well, since I let him know on the slide that my “companion” is enamored of the language, and thinks me extra impressive when I speak it in front of him.

“I see,” says the waiter, winking, and proceeds to be very impressive in his French as well. He gives me opportunities to show off while ordering wines and looking at menus. Which I involve Tommy in, helping to explain what dishes are, and starting to use some isolated words in French as I do, so that he begins to learn a bit.

We settle on some fondue as one appetizer, artichaut poivrade (poached artichoke) for the other. The artichokes are in a lemon and herb liquid, making them extra tasty and tender. Something that Tommy isn’t immediately keen on but says is better than snails.

I laugh and say, “With enough garlic and butter, you won’t be complaining about the taste of snails, Tommy. I promise you, you won’t.” Before I think about what I’m doing, I reach over and hold his hand. I put mine over his as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. “If it isn’t or wasn’t good, trust me when I say no person would eat it.”

He nods but doesn’t say anything as the waiter brings us our chilled wine and fresh glasses to pour it in. It’s only when the appetizers arrive, and one of the servers looks down and smiles at my hand, do I realize where it is still. At that point, I quickly move it off.

Tommy notices, but instead of looking surprised or offended, he looks abandoned. It’s like he is hungry for the touch that’s just left him. But he quickly wipes the emotion from his face and asks me about the appetizer again, the artichoke one.

I know it’s a dodge, but I give in to it anyway. I fill him in, taking a sip of my wine as I do. He takes a couple cautious bites after that. At first, he is not sure what to do with the lemon or the herbs, but by the end of the plate, he’s a fan.

“That was much better than I thought it was going to be,” he says, legitimately pleased by it. “I never thought I would like artichokes.”

“You probably never thought you would like French food or the French language either,” I point out, and watch him blush. He grins sheepishly at me, which I love every moment of.

“No,” he admits, “I didn’t think that would happen either.”

“That’s the magic of life,” I say, taking another sweet sip of my bitter wine. “When I was growing up in England, I didn’t think I would ever come to America, let alone set up a life here. And yet, I’ve done just that. With no intention of ever going back.” As I say this, I take another sip of my wine. Except this one is more like a gulp. Dennis has just reared his ugly head in my thoughts, and I’m determined to drown him out.

Tommy, unfortunately, decides to summon him. “What does your boyfriend think?” Cautiously, he starts to move a piece of bread into the fondue. “About you not going back to Europe?” He pauses a minute, then realizes what he’s just asked me. He bugs his eyes out, and he says, “Never mind! You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to, Melissa. It’s really none of my damn business.” He sticks that cheese-covered piece of bread in his mouth, careful not to fork himself in the lips as he does.