“For sure?”
“Pretty certain,” he says. He looks guilty, spits it out: “He was never going to.”
His face is arranged into a tangle of emotions—I can see he’s not sure how I’m going to take this and preparing for a variety of outcomes. It’s also clear he is not a person who lies often, or well.
“You dangled Seinfeld to get me to go out with you?”
Jake nods. “I mean, there was a slight possibility, but honestly, it was slim to none.”
“How do you even know I like Seinfeld?” I say. “Maybe it would have been a deterrent.”
Jake stands, then offers me his hand. His palm is warm and calloused. “No way,” he says, handing me my jacket. “Everyone loves Seinfeld.”
Chapter Ten
Jake takes me to Pace in Laurel Canyon, a restaurant I have loved since I was a kid—my dad would take me here if we ever found ourselves on the east side. It’s this Italian place that does a really solid dinner menu—but the main draw is the atmosphere. Midway up the canyon, Pace sits on the right side of the road, and in recent years the restaurant has taken over the parking lot and adjacent dry cleaner’s. The best seats in the house are the ones by a heat lamp and glass window with a sign markedWASH AND FOLD.
“The canyon kind of reminds me of home sometimes,” Jake says. “It’s the only place in Los Angeles I can smell nature. Woodsy.”
“Except when it burns.”
“Right, then it just reminds me of hell.”
The comment gives me whiplash coming out of Jake’s mouth.
“Dark,” I say.
“Sorry,” he says. He looks it, too. “Just trying to keep up with your banter level. I think I missed the mark.”
“You’re genuine,” I say. “I like it.”
He smiles. I see his cheeks tinge pink.
We’re eating—him, a red snapper. Me, a bowl of linguini.
“Do you go back home often?”
“I try to,” he says. “It’s not so far, but life gets busy. I wish my folks would come out more, but they don’t love to travel.”
“I get that,” I say. My parents think Florida is leaving the country.
“We used to travel when I was younger—my sister and me and my folks. We went to Europe two summers in a row, and Costa Rica for the holidays one year. But as they’ve gotten older they’ve been less interested. My mom likes to garden, and my dad has his golf game.” Jake shrugs. “They enjoy their routine.”
“It sounds like they really enjoy each other’s company,” I say.
Jake takes a sip of his wine. “That too.”
We never traveled much when I was a child. We’d go to Palm Springs for Christmas and Tahoe for the Fourth of July and that was pretty much it. My parents are liberal, sophisticated people, for the most part. You think they would have prioritized even Mexico, maybe, but travel was expensive, and it wasn’t a part of what made our life distinct.
“How is your pasta?” Jake asks. He peers forward at my bowl.
“Good,” I say. I look at him. “Do you want a bite?”
He nods. “Yes, please.”
Jake is not a man who is afraid to say how he feels. To peer into a bowl of pasta and accept a bite.
I twirl some noodles onto my fork and then hold it out to him.He doesn’t hesitate, he puts his mouth around the fork and grabs hold of the linguine.
