“I’m not going back to Kicks,” I say.
His smile widens, which does fluttery things to my insides.
“No, probably not a good idea,” he says.
“And we aren’t going to Wench.”
“Something about that place makes you uncomfortable, doesn’t it?”
My soft feelings disappear because I don’t like how much he sees. “It’s fine,” I say.
“No, it isn’t.”
I keep my eyes on the road. We aren’t having that conversation. There are still some secrets I can’t share.
Jasper must take the hint, because he says, “There are lots of great places to eat in town. Where do you want to go?”
“Wherever you want.”
“You must have somewhere you like,” Jasper says.
“I’m allergic to a lot of things,” I say. “I usually eat at home. It’s safer.” At least it was before shadow-shaped enemies lurked in darkened corners.
“That’s no fun.” Jasper’s practically pouting.
“Neither is anaphylaxis.” But he’s still waiting for an answer, and we’re past me playing the fussy nerd, so I say, “What’s your favourite?”
He sighs dreamily. “I like the deep-fried pickles at the Lazy Moose.”
When I wrinkle my nose, he laughs.
“What?” I say.
“Not a fan of deep-fried pickles?”
“I honestly don’t think I’ve ever had one.”
His shout is so sharp, I almost jerk over the centre line a second time.
“What was that?” I ask.
“Morgan! You never had deep-fried pickles?”
If my hands were free, I’d put them over my ears. “Why are you yelling?”
He shouts again, then bumps his fist against the dash. “Take a left at the light.”
And that’s how we wind up sitting across from each other at yet another greasy spoon diner as Jasper gleefully orders a plate of fried dill pickles and an order of nachos. Why is it always nachos with him? The waitress pales as I give her my list of allergies. Onions, mustard, nuts—except almonds for no reason anyone’s ever been able to explain to me—blue cheese, cilantro, raw eggs, raw peaches—but cooked ones are okay—and all cherries. She reassures me they use vegetable oil in the deep fryer and none of those other things are in the pickles, so I guess I’ll have to take my chances.
And look, maybe the “prissy” act wasn’t all pretend. It’s not only the allergies. I’m professional. And careful. But Ican honestly say the plastic chairs, the peeling forest animal wallpaper, and the way my shirt cuffs stick to the edge of the table every time I lift a hand do not recommend this place any more than the atmosphere at Kicks did.
“Are henchman only allowed to eat at places with less than three stars on Yelp?” I ask, making sure to smile enough that he knows I’m only half serious.
“No one gets into henching for the money. This place is cheap and tasty.” He shrugs unapologetically. “I gave you a chance to pick. If you wanted linen tablecloths, you should have said something.”
I so desperately want to ask him why he got into henching if it wasn’t for the money, but I’m also afraid to hear the answer. Instead, I squeeze the limes into my ice water as I say, “Jasper, you seem to be under the misapprehension that I’m some kind of snob.”
“Aren’t you?”
