He holds out his hand for me to shake.
Reluctantly, I remove my hand from behind Desiree’s back and shake Max’s.
“Max, this is Desiree. Desiree, this is Max, host here atRusso’s.”
“Pleasure to meet you, Max.” She smiles in that friendly way that makes any and everyone want to be near her.
I replace my hand at the small of her back and move in between Max and Desiree. His blue eyes sparkle a bit too much for my liking as he grins at her.
“Your table’s ready,” Max says when he abruptly looks up at me.
“He seems nice,” Desiree remarks after taking the seat I held out for her.
“He is.”
“He looked at you like you were an older brother, almost.”
I nod and shrug. “Max is young and impressionable.”
“Or looking at you as his hero. I know the look well.”
I shake my head. “I’m not a hero.”
“But you did help him, didn’t you?”
Our eyes lock across the circular table. For a moment, the Italian music playing in the background ceases, the murmurs of the other diners halt, and nothing exists between Desiree and me except for the space created by the table.
Before I can let that look force me to pull her over the table, I shake my head. “I can’t disclose that.”
Her words might hold a lot of truth, but it’s not my place to confirm her suspicions. She’s asking if Max was a patient at my rehab. The truth is, he wasn’t. I met him at my regular meeting across town, miles away from McKenna Rehab, but still in a room full of drunks. Max stumbled in one night, still reeking of alcohol but with that withered, desperate look in his eyes that many of us know so well. And yes, I took him on as a sponsee for a brief stint before passing him off to another sponsor, but again, that’s not my story to tell.
“I understand.”
Our waitress for the evening comes over and introduces herself, lowering the bread basket along with olive oil and vinegar to the table. She hands us our menus before leaving to give us time to look them over.
I lower the menu to the table, not needing to look at it.
“You know what you're getting?”
I nod. “Same thing I always get. The bruschetta pizza.” I show her the item on the menu.
“Looks good. I’ll get it, too. Although, I probably should be suspicious of your taste buds since oatmeal raisin cookies are your favorite.”
I tilt my head back and let out a laugh. “Aw, man, not you, too.”
She giggles. “I’m just saying. There’re so many other cookie options out there, and your taste buds settle onoatmeal raisin?” She shakes her head.
“Not just any oatmeal raisin,youroatmeal raisin cookies, Desiree.”
The air between us stills, electrifying itself with the intensity of my words and the meaning behind my statement. Another truth. I was a fan of oatmeal cookies, sure, but it wasn’t until I ate Desiree’s that they moved to the top of my list.
“Then I’m glad I gave you your own tin to enjoy them.”
“Thanks again for that, by the way. I can’t imagine how busy you’re about to get with the holiday season coming up.”
Her face brightens with another smile. “Are you kidding? Despite the sorrow of today’s date, I truly wait for this time of year, every year. My favorite place to be is in the kitchen. I’ve added two new holiday cookies to my menu, and I can’t wait to see how well they sell.”
“What are they?”
