Woodrow sucked his dessert through a straw, which doubled as a little spoon, that he occasionally changed it up with by using. I wasn't nearly as sophisticated, pecking through the chunks of cake with both my fork and fingers. I couldn't get it in my mouth quick enough. The treat was incredible, and the chilled vibe that echoed in this space was just what I needed. No one second glanced me. I overheard no comments, not even from the children who had just left with their parents, clearly having been brought up impeccably.
For a brief moment, I wondered if my baby would have turned out that way. I wondered what tone of skin she'd have, as such a contrast separated Woodrow's and mine. I wondered so much about her; how she'd sound, what she'd enjoy, what dessert she'd have picked. . . and I was only pulled back to reality, when I accidentally bit my tongue.
“Are you okay?” Woodrow asked, disguising his laugh.
I simply nodded, spooning in another fork full.
A small crowd walked in. A group of all male friends holding up a drunken companion. They slumped him in a seat at a table opposite, leaving him to place their orders.
The man's head was on the table, his mouth drooling over the menu printed there.
The group made it back, a friend nudging him to sit up. His eyes landed on me. He was attractive, in his way, but not an ethereal pretty boy like Woodrow, whose pretty eyes blinked, black lashes fluttering as he watched me without saying a word.
I drifted my gaze back to my dessert. I didn't want to risk a switch for him believing there was more to my wandering eyes than just taking in the sights and faces around me. I hadn't seen new faces in the longest time. I hadn't been granted new experiences. . . and despite my scars begging to hide, my curiosity did the opposite.
I heard the man at the table make a comment about how gross something was, and I assumed it was about the dessert that had just been set down in front of him. I glanced over, but his eyes weren't on his float, they were on my face. Hewas talking about me.
“Shut. Up,” one of his friends warned.
The drunk said something else. More hurtful words that were hard to understand as he flicked them from his tongue in my direction.
My breathing quickened. My mood lowered instantly. I looked down at my plate, and not even the sweet mess on top of it offered me comfort.
Woodrow's hand slid across the table, engulfing mine as I clutched my fork, tighter and tighter. His thumb brushed my skin, a gentle caress that did nothing for me.
He made another remark about how it was hard to look at me and enjoy his float at the same time.
I hated him. I didn't know him, but I HATED him. And I was no longer enjoying my dessert, either.
I pulled away from Woodrow, setting the fork down, making it known I was done.
Woodrow's eyes lowered, his lashes doing that pretty flutter again.
“You missed a little cake,” he told me, as if I didn't know. His eyes on my plate, where a piece of cake peeped out beneath a mountain of ice-cream. I'd been digging through the ice-cream layers like I was hunting each piece of the sponge cake and had a warrant for their consumption.
But I no longer wanted to eat, and I proved that, pushing away the plate.
“Don't let a loser like him spoil your mood. . . or your dessert.” Woodrow lifted my fork. The sharp edges stabbed through the chunks of cake he could see, and he directed them to my tongue. “You've dealt with worse than him.”
A single tear slipped down my cheek, hanging off my jaw, and as if it called for a friend, another trailed it, both of them landing in the ruffles of my dress.
“No tears, Moonlight. He isn’t worth them.”
The cake moved closer to my lips, and with a little reluctance, I opened my mouth, and I enjoyed what I thought were the last chunks of cake, which prompted him to hunt for more, feeding me until there was nothing but melting ice-cream. Then he swapped my fork for his spoon and shared it with me, stealingthe first mouthful.
The innocent smile that played on his lips, brought one to mine. In that very second, I remembered every suppressed feeling of love. Of heartache.
His free hand reached across the small table, palm up in an offering to me. Fear shone in his pretty eyes. . . fear of the rejection I'd already given him so many times these past few days. But not today, as I took his hand.
Another comment came from the drunk man, followed by another verbal disciplinary from the same sober friend.
Tears, hundreds of them, fell from my eyes. I felt Woodrow’s whole body stiffen as if he was suffering from rigor mortis before he ripped his hand from mine.
“Woodrow,” I whispered, shaking my head, trying to encourage him not to do whatever he was about to.
I didn't want him strolling over there with anger inside him, attracting an unwanted guest. And I didn't want him to risk an injury to the throat that he'd been adjusting on and off all evening.
He didn't even look back at me to see my disquiet.
