He nods his head upward once. “Ready?”
I know this most likely isn’t the end of the Oklahoma conversation, but the noises that are erupting from both of our stomachs have become an annoying reminder that we need to go scavenge for food we could both agree upon. We might as well just decide to die right now of starvation.
I hold up my room key before depositing it in my small leather crossbody to show him that I am indeed ready.
He walks toward the door with perfect posture, of course. I take a deep breath and follow him like a puppy following her owner, hoping he’ll drop some scraps.
We’re silent in the elevator, and our silence follows us outside onto the streets of LA,allowing the noise and life of the city to wrap around us. The sun is still bright, slipping through the streets, its warmth freckling my shoulders with kisses. It’s so different from New York City, yet similar.
The sky seems more open here, less constricted. And there are people of all kinds swarming the streets. We just passed a woman on her phone dressed in a business suit right before we walked by a woman wearing a two-piece yellow bikini. It’s a bit thrilling to think of the number of personalities and stories you could pry out of these people if they were willing to sit down for a while and let you get to know them.
“Where are we going?” I finally ask after we’ve walked three blocks, which is three blocks too many since my stomach is aching.
Evan abruptly stops. “What kind of food do you like?”
“I. Would. Eat. Anything. Right. Now.” I make each word its own sentence, exaggerating every consonant and vowel.
He rolls his eyes at me, something I’m very used to already. “Anything? You would not eat anything.”
“How do you know?” I question him, making it sound like a challenge, but also praying he doesn’t take it as a challenge and conjure up a place that serves food that has eyes that look at you while you eat it.
Another eye roll.
If I’m honest, a corn dog sounds like fine dining right now, and it makes me think back to the corn dog stand I worked at for a few summers. Evan had looked at me like I was spinning a tall tale when I mentioned it, but I’d loved that little stand. I loved dipping the hot dogs into batter and watching them crisp into a golden brown.
One of the perks of the job was a free corn dog or two during your shift. You would think you’d get tired of eating corn dogs, but you’d be wrong. I tried them with every topping option: mustard, ketchup, relish, BBQ, and even hot sauce.
“Where do you like to eat?” I ask.
He dares to shrug his shoulders as we continue walking, with me a step behind. I really need this man to decide, to chart the course ahead, to seize the day, andchoose a place to eat.
“Let me rephrase,” I mutter loudly. “Please, oh please, stop somewhere and get me something to eat before my death is on your hands. Melanie would never forgive you.”
“Have you always been this dramatic? We’re here,” he says casually, as if we had never been aimlessly wandering and he had a plan all along.
But of course he would.
Evan Michaels doesn’t seem like the kind of man that does something without intention. He’s calculated, annoyingly so, but at this moment, I must admit, I appreciate that he had a plan. However, I will not voice that gratitude to him.
I look up, expecting to see something that looks too rich for my small-town, Oklahoma blood. Instead, I see a glowing neon sign showcasing a burger, and I dare to dream that this place serves them greasy with a side of salty fries.
They do.
The burger is greasy, messy, and all things perfect in my book. Well, maybe not in my actual books that I’d attempted to query out. However, if I were to write a scene that featured a restaurant, it would be this one.
The one where the hamburger is perfectly seasoned and topped with sautéed onions and mushrooms that attempt to slip off every time you take a bite because it's possibly a little too big for the circumference of your mouth. The one where they hand cut their own fries into small strips and deep-fat fried them to perfection in what I assume is the kind of grease that if you saw it, you would whole-heartedly believe that’s where all your heart and stomach issues began.
I’ve seen that grease before. It goes in a thick, beautiful, buttery yellow, but by the end of the week, when you must drain and refill it, you discover that it had morphed into something that resembles fluid that should be leaking from a car, not where your food had been cooked.
I feel ketchup and mayo drip from my lips as I take another bite, and I think I just saw the corner of Evan’s mouth twitch upward as if he is amused by my ravenous behavior in devouring my cheeseburger. It’s curious because Evan currently has his napkin perfectly tucked into the neck of his baby-blue button-up shirt, and he’s eating with very calculated bites, managing to keep his burger intact. An impossible feat for me. Mine always falls apart.
Evan doesn’t even make us eat at separate tables. We are too hungry to care about being seen together. The restaurant seems like an interesting choice for Evan Michaels, but I am so happy to have good food that I’m not even going to challenge his decision.
“So, Oklahoma?” He politely swallows his bite before asking the question.
I don’t mimic him. With a mouth full of fries I reply, “What do you want to know?”
“Well, the dresses make more sense,” he says as he carefully picks up another napkin and dabs at his lips, even though I see nothing that needs cleaned up.
