“Hey! I don’t like regular wings, so bring on the nuggets,” he laughs, still scanning the menu.
I pause. “Wait, really?”
“One day, they just stopped being good. Haven’t eaten them since,” Julian explains, and I nod in understanding. Growing up, we always ate ogi and akara on Saturdays. Then one day, I stopped. It no longer smelled or tasted right.
“I also have my share of food I randomly stopped eating,” I say.
“Good to hear I’m not the only weird person.”
“Yeah, when I was seven, I stopped—” The sound of rippling plastic announces another presence in the now-cozy igloo. The soft beats ofgrowing familiarity leave as a server in black leggings and a white shirt approaches us. Her oval face is made up simply, her hair pulled into a tight bun.
“Can I start you guys off with any drinks or appetizers?” she asks with an inviting smile. My mouth opens to order, but Julian gets there first.
He leans forward, menu choked between his forearm and the table. “I’d like the wings and a gin and tonic.”
The server, whose name tag reads Jo, scribbles down his order, without sparing him a second glance. She shifts towards me, and I give her a courteous smile and open my mouth to order when Julian interrupts…again.
I take a quick breath, trying to quell my irritation.
“What else would you recommend?” he asks. Jo stiffens and pivots to face him once more, her previously welcoming smile replaced with a generic version.
“Customers typically enjoy the sliders, but if you’re feeling very Bostonian, I recommend the clam chowder,” she recites, as if reading from the menu’s back matter.
“But what wouldyou—” Julian leans forward and squints to read her name tag.
You’ve got to be kidding me.
“Jo—Jo, is it?” Julian gazes up at the waitress. “Your name can’t be Jo. I mean, look at you.”
And like he did to me, his eyes rake over her body. Unlike with me, he skips her face, automatically going to her chest and then spends considerable time looking at her legs.
I don’t bother controlling my anger.
“Her name is none of your business, Julian,” I say through a gritted smile, hoping to command his attention, while not making Jo feel even more uncomfortable.
Jo looks at me, and I wonder if I should even order anything, but her cool, brown eyes roll slightly, and I know she’s unfazed by Julian’s actions. Still, I give her an apologetic look before ordering a Paloma and churro fries.
Once Jo finishes taking my order, I turn to Julian, ready to confronthim. But I have to wait, because instead of looking at me, he turns to follow Jo’s movements, taking special interest in the sway of her hips.
When he’s done ogling, he faces me like nothing happened.
“Can you imagine someone like that”—he points his thumb over his shoulder—“having a masculine name? I can’t imagine what would make her parents choose such a name.”
“Are you serious?”
“Would you choose a masculine name for a pretty girl?” he asks, chuckling.
Voice unshaken—surprising, with the earthquake bubbling inside me—I say, “My name is unisex.”
Julian’s retort dies in his throat. His lips stretch into a fine line before upticking into a smirk. He lifts a glass of water toward me. “Touché.”
“No, not touché. That was uncalled for, you know.”
Forget aboutCupid’s Bowand dating. There’s no way I’m sitting here without correcting this pig. I might’ve ignored things about Cole, but even the promise of true love won’t let me ignore this.
“It’s one thing to ask for a recommendation, but it’s another to make comments about her name and her body. It’s disgusting.”
“I didn’t mean it to come off that way. I was curious about the menu, and the name stumped me. Honest.” He places his hands up in mock surrender. “I’m sorry if I upset you, Gorgeous,” Julian says with a degree of playfulness, but I’m not laughing.
