“ROTINI!” she finally managed to gasp out between fits of laughter. “Oh my God, ROTINI!”
Other customers were turning to stare, but Sisi was beyond caring. She was practically hyperventilating.
“The girl said she liked the twisty kind!” I muttered. “You know, like in fancy restaurants.”
Mateo wasn’t any better than Sisi, clutching his stomach as he laughed. “Dude, you told her a vibrator makes twisty pasta?”
“It might get worse,” I said miserably.
“Oh, fuck. Why aren’t we filming this?” Sisi wheezed.
Mateo fumbled for his phone, but I slapped his hand faster than a Catholic nun with a ruler.
Reluctantly, I looked back toward Sisi. “She wanted me to tell her dad to make pasta for dinner so she could watch the ‘Willie Wee’ work.”
Sisi made a sound like a dying seal and slid down in the booth, completely gone.
Mateo gasped for breath.
Dolores, apparently curious what was captivating her entire section, had snuck up behind me and heard the whole thing. Before I knew what was happening, a dozen people standing, sitting, eating, and checking out at the counter had tears in their eyes. A few women were mimicking using a vibrator in a bowl, while others muttered, “Rabbit pasta,” between breathless laughs.
“The vibrator wasn’t for him!” I shouted, realizing I’d just made things a million times worse as the restaurant devolved into a chorus of amusement.
My voice turned pitiful as I continued, “It was supposed to go next door, but the address got mixed up and—” I groaned. “The point is I’ve already traumatized him once. I doubt he wants to see me again . . . ever.”
“Or you gave him ideas,” Sisi said with a wicked grin. “I bet he’s been thinking about all the ways you could help him stir his own pasta ever since.”
“Oh, God. First library references, now kitchen!” I protested, but I was laughing despite myself. “Please, stab me with that butter knife and end me now.”
“Fine, fine,” Sisi said, wiping her own tears.
It took a moment for everyone to settle and for Sisi to gather herself. When she did, her voice was almost calm again. Almost.
“But seriously, Jer. You need to talk to him. Find out if there’s something there,” she said.
“I . . . I don’t know how to do this,” I said finally. “It’s been years since I’ve asked anyone out. I’m not good at thinking on my feet. Hell, I’m barely good at thinking. You know that.”
“Start small,” Mateo suggested, his hand finding my forearm in a comforting gesture. “Just . . . have a normal conversation with him. See if you click.”
“When and where is this ‘normal conversation’ supposed to happen? It’s not like we work together or anything. I don’t have his number, and I can’t just show up at his door again.”
“Not without a sex toy,” Sisi muttered.
Mateo spit coffee across the table and onto the window that looked out onto the street.
“You two are awful,” I said, grabbing my water glass and downing the whole thing. “And then what? I mean . . . say we talk. If we do click, do I just . . . ask for his number? Call him up like we’re teenagers?”
Sisi’s eyes lit up with what should have been a warning sign, but I wasn’t the best at reading signs. Most days, I barely noticed they existed, but something in her gaze set off alarm bells.
Sisi cocked her head and measured her words. “Oh no, absolutely not. A phone call is so boring, so ordinary—some might say pedestrian.”
“Pedestrian?” I turned the word over, unable to remember what it meant. Was it a kitchen thing, too?
“Yes, boring. You need to make a gesture. You only get asked out the first time once.”
Huh. That math seemed to . . . math . . . or whatever math did when it was right.
“A gesture?” I repeated slowly.
