“Wait, wait,” Siena says. She stops me with a hand that’s wet from her glass. “I like to play guess and go with new friends and their tats. Is that cool?” She lifts an arm and shows off her own tattoo sleeve.
“Go for it.”
Siena leans over the table a bit, her hair falling around her face, to get a closer aerial view.
“All right, well, you got money, that’s for sure, because this is some detailed shit. Thatshading. You must’ve sat for a while for this.” Her thumb brushes over it. “And it must’ve hurt like a motherfucker if you’re that sensitive,” she adds, noting how that tickled me. “Birdcages suggest some kind of confinement, but the open door and the soaring bird make me think you’re escaping something. The flowers left behind feel like what you do at a gravestone. You’re mourning a past you? Some self-care shit?” Her hot-chocolate irises, made larger by her glasses—which may or may not be prescription—meet mine again. All I can do is nod. “Then there’s the movieThe Birdcage. Plus that Maya Angelou poem… Now, I’m just free-associating here, but I’d say you got this tattoo at eighteen or nineteen to represent your newfound freedom.” Her words land with finality and an impressive sense of authority.
“You got all that from my forearm?” I ask.
“Don’t tell me if I’m wrong or we’ll be here all night.” Siena’s laugh is light and charming.
“No, you pretty much nailed it.”
“She’s like a palm reader but for tattoos,” Noelle says.
Siena nudges her with an elbow. “Too bad this one is afraid of needles, so I’ll never know what’s going on in that pretty head of hers.” Siena blushes when she realizes what she said, and now I’m starting to think Noelle didn’t need us here at all. Maybe Siena’s been harboring feelings for Noelle since last Christmas as well.
“Have you ever thought about getting a tattoo?” I ask Hector.
The table is wobbly, much like my insides, but I lean forward. The tart, acidic hint of cranberry in my seltzer goes down smoothly and turns my stomach into a kiln.
He looks away. “I have one.”
“Well, now I have to see it,” I say. My eyes scan over every inch of exposed skin.
“It’s not exactly in a bar-appropriate place.”
“I would argue pretty much any place is appropriate in the right bar.”
He raises his eyebrows. “Surprised you haven’t noticed it already.”
Siena and Noelle laugh with abandon at Hector’s relentless read of my open admiration. I knew I wasn’t being subtle about my thirst, but his callout still tickles me. I finish my drink to hide my grin.
At least he can joke about our sexual chemistry. That’s a good sign.
The food comes right on cue. I push the soggy lettuce around on my plate. It’s drowning in unidentifiable dressing. The smell of Hector’s meal makes me wish I’d made a better choice.
“How is gala prep going?” Noelle asks.
I swallow a bite. “Prep is good. We’re still on the hunt for the perfect caterer. I’m woefully inexperienced in Wind River cuisine, and I’m sure this place doesn’t do events.”
“I can see it now. People trying not to get BBQ sauce all over their evening gowns,” Hector says.
“Just stock up on napkins. No, no! Better yet, get custom bibs. They can be commemorative,” Noelle suggests.
Hector’s already sporting a BBQ sauce mustache himself. Without thinking, or at least fully thinking, I lean over with a napkin and clean him off. He lets it happen, the Cupid’s bow of his lips revealing itself from beneath the brown sludge, and I get this strange feeling that he might even like it. “Dude, either you’ve got a strong paternal instinct or you can’t stand looking at messy eaters.”
“That’s it! I have had it up to here with these ‘dudes.’ You definitely owe me a dollar,” I say. I playfully pull up Venmo on my phone.
Siena clears her throat, breaking up the banter. “My sister is one of, if notthetop chef in town. Why don’t you give her a try? She’s always wanted to attempt catering. Jack had a family friend from out of town do all the cooking for the gala and imported it on trucks, but with the dining hall kitchen available for use at the college, it might be nice to get an in-house chef and a staff.”
In my experience, I remember the excellent crab cakes or the signature cocktail over anything else when I attend one of these philanthropic social functions. The conversations held over side salads and fresh focaccia are what stay with me. My taste buds hold on to my memories.
Siena is showing me food photos from the restaurant. My mouth is already watering over the cacio e pepe as I pick at my pathetic excuse for a salad. “She’d totally let you two come in for a tasting to sample the goods.”
I’m about to accept when Dad’s caller ID appears on my phone, lying face up on the table. I stall, but ultimately send the call to voicemail. It’s his turn to memorize the sound of my prerecorded voice. Let’s see how he likes a tiny taste of his own medicine.
At the bottom of our fourth round, we all chip in to close out our tab.
