“I don’t know where to take you. Where do you take a chef out to dinner? Do you go to a fancy place hoping to impress them? Or if not, do they spend all their time judging the food, finding it’s not up to their standard?” I look away and then swing my eyes back to him. I’ve never had this problem. I hardly ever date and I’ve never dated a chef before. Date! Fuck! Is that what this is? I guess so. I asked him to dinner because I want to spend time with him. Yep, that feels like a date. Shit. I’m so bad at this. Life was simpler with just hookups. Now I’m second-guessing what to fucking eat. He surprises me by laughing. I don’t think it’s funny; I’m over here stressing over what to do.
“Honestly, just eating something I haven’t had to cook myself is fine with me,” he says. “A night off from any food preparation or cooking is a real luxury.”
I guess I hadn’t thought about it like that. I suppose you’d get fed up with it occasionally if it’s your job and then you have to do the same thing just to be able to eat.
“Is there anything you prefer, then?” I ask and he thinks for a minute.
“I try to avoid the chains as I know how they are all mass produced and cooked. Anything that’s independently owned is usually much better. It doesn’t have to be a top restaurant, honest home-cooked food tastes just as good.” He looks out of the car and along the street. There are several food places open, lights spilling out onto the dark street.
“How about that place?” He points to a place across the road. Mountains Bar and Grill. “They look like they might do a decent burger or ribs.”
“Are you sure?” Despite his words, I’m still a little surprised by his choice.
“Yes, it looks lively. It’ll be fun.”
“Alright, but if it’s not okay, I want you to remember that you picked it.”
“As long as you’re still paying. This is still you taking me out, right?” He grins and then opens the door and climbs out of the car. Oh yeah, this is definitely a date. I scramble out of the car and follow him. We cross the highway and enter the bar.
It’s bright and loud and busy, and there’s a large bar that takes up most of one wall. On the opposite side is a low stage wherea band is playing country music, and I can see a corner where there’s a pool table and a dart board. In between, the space is filled with tables, most of them already taken. A woman comes up to us, dressed all in black, and her polo has the name of the bar on it.
“Welcome to Mountains, are you looking to eat?”
“Yes please, just the two of us,” I say quickly.
“Great, hold on.” She disappears for a minute and comes back with some menus. “Follow me,” she instructs and leads the way, threading through the room until we reach a table along one wall, about halfway between the bar and the stage. We sit and she hands us each a menu.
“I’m Ana, and I’ll be your server tonight. I’ll be back in a moment to take your order.” She turns and walks away to another table. I look over at Simon, and he’s turned towards the stage watching the band. He looks relaxed and happy. Much more than he’s been all afternoon. As if he knows I’m watching him, he looks over, and his smile is so broad that it makes me smile too. He holds my gaze for a second and I can’t look away, then he breaks the contact and drops his eyes to the menu.
Ana returns a few minutes later. Simon starts to ask her a few questions, and I wonder if he’s going to start grilling her on how each dish is cooked, but I see that he’s asking for what she recommends and what’s the most popular. In the end he says he’ll keep it simple, and orders the house burger and a beer. I ask for the same. Ana brings our beers quickly and I take a long swig, finally letting myself relax. I wanted to spend the day with Simon, which I’ve enjoyed, but so far I’ve asked him to fit into my world. This bar feels like neither of us are trying to be anything other than who we are. I also realise that I don’t knowmuch about him. The only piece of information I know—where in England he’s from—Gabriel asked him, not me. My need to try to keep it casual, my stupid hookup rules, have made me seem distant and I don’t like it. A part of me chimes in and I ask myself, why do I want to know? In less than forty-eight hours I’ll be flying out of here and out of his life anyway. But I quickly silence that voice. I want to know everything I can about Simon.
“So, how come you’re working up here in the mountains?” I ask.
“Oh, you don’t want to know about me. My story is boring,” he says evasively and picks up his drink. I catch his other hand, drawing it towards me and holding it on my knee beneath the table.
“There’s nothing boring about you,” I say, and he gives an almost sad smile, like he doesn’t believe me. I have an overwhelming urge to convince him I’m right.
“Okay,” he sighs and puts his bottle back on the table. “I was planning to set up my own restaurant. I’ve been saving for years... started pretty much as soon as I finished college. I’ve travelled quite a bit, picking up recipes and ideas from different countries. I ended up in Portland, and I liked it, so I thought it would be a great place to start out on my own. I didn’t have enough money then, so I found a business partner who would supply half the money for a stake in the business. He was a friend of a friend and he seemed alright, and I didn’t care as I got to do what I wanted. But I was naive and trusted him too much. I’m not a US citizen, so he was dealing with the business side. He took my savings and disappeared overnight. Even our supposed friends couldn’t find him. He took everything I had. So I decided to go back home to the UK, but I didn’t even have enough for my ticket. So another friend, who was coming up here, said there was a chef job going for the season. I got the job and here I am.Once my contract is up at the end of January, I’m off.” He picks up his drink and takes a long gulp. I see the look in his eyes—the hurt and failure, the betrayal and dashed dreams. I’m still holding his hand so I give it a squeeze.
“I’m sorry that happened to you,” I say and he gives me a small smile.
“I said it was boring. I’m not proud of myself, but there’s no point getting upset. I’ve been through that. I just want to think about the future now.”
Our burgers arrive and I reluctantly release his hand. We spend a few minutes attacking them. I haven’t eaten since breakfast, and looking at the way Simon is devouring his burger, I don’t think he has either.
“What are your plans when you get home?” I ask, once I’ve managed to slow down enough to talk.
“Get a job.” He shrugs, dipping his fries in BBQ sauce. “I doubt I’ll ever save up enough money again to have my own restaurant, but I hope to become head chef, maybe somewhere that will let me try out all the ideas I have for dishes. But immediately ... any job will do so I can afford somewhere to stay.” He pops the fries into his mouth and chews thoughtfully. It must be tough for him. I know something of what he feels, being homeless and jobless, but I was lucky enough to land a job straight away.
“What about family, do you have any?”
“No, my parents died six years ago. I have an aunt, and a couple of cousins but they’re younger than me and I haven’t seen them since the funeral.” He pauses and takes a drink.
“I’m sorry,” I say and he just shakes his head a little. Pain flashes across his face and I feel bad for asking.
“Thank you. They were killed in a car crash. I was nineteen at the time. It was hard but I threw myself into college and left the UK as soon as I could. I wanted them to be proud of me but that didn’t turn out so well . . .” He trails off and I can see his face twist like he’s trying to get past the painful memory. I reach for his hand again and hold it between both of mine, hoping it lends him support. He takes a few deep breaths and then a long drink. When his eyes meet mine again he still looks sad but not like he’s going to lose it.
“Thank you,” he whispers and I squeeze his hand again.
