The slack-jawed waiter straightens up. “That’s the Pernod-Ricard Perrier Jouet. It’s over four thousand dollars.”
“That’s it?” Lo says with the tilt of his head, feigning shock.
The manager places a tight hand on the waiter’s shoulder. “I’ll get that right out for you, Mr. Hale.” Ooh, he even used his name from the credit card. Bonus points for him. He ushers the waiter out of our sight, and Lo looks about ready to break the neck of a chicken—or the man who just shuffled away with his tail between his legs.
“So we’re not eating here,” I say, adding up what just happened.
“Would you like to eat here?” he almost shouts, unbuttoning the top of his black-collared shirt.
“Not really.” My cheeks blossom with an ugly red tint the longer people stare.
He rolls up his sleeves. “I had no idea that respect needed to be earned in a fucking restaurant.”
“Can you stop messing with your shirt?”
“Why?” he asks, calming down. He scrutinizes my body language. “Is it turning you on?”
I glare. “No. It looks like you’re about ready to run into the kitchen and beat the crap out of our waiter.” Which is comical. Lo avoids most fights and would be more apt to scream in your face, verbally attacking, than throw a punch.
He rolls his eyes but stops messing with his sleeves per my request.
Only a minute passes before the manager returns with a gold bottle and the American Express card. Lo stands, gestures for me to rise, and he grabs both and shoots everyone a scalding look on his way out, even the manager who did nothing more than apologize and offer a grateful thanks.
I slip my hands into my long woolen coat. “Nola isn’t supposed to be here for another hour,” I tell him.
“We’ll walk for a while. The taco stand is ten blocks away. Think you can make it?”
I nod. My short heels already stick in divots along the cracked sidewalk, but I try not to fuss about it. “Are you okay?” I ask him. The bottle swings in his hand, but he reaches down for mine with the other, holding tightly and warming my chilly palm.
“I just hate that,” he says, wiping his sweaty brow. “I hate that we’re still treated like children even though we’re in our twenties. I hate that I had to pull out my wallet and buy respect.” We stop at a cross-walk, a big red hand flashing at us, telling us to stay put. “I feel like my father.”
His admittance takes me aback. And his cheekbones sharpen, making my stomach somersault. He looks far more like Jonathan Hale than I will ever confess.
“You’re not him,” I whisper. “He would have flipped that table over and then left the staff to clean his mess.”
Lo actually laughs at the image. “Would he?” The sign changes towalk, and we cross the halted traffic, cars lined on the street with bright headlights shining forward and backwards. Just like that, the mention of his father drops in the air, lost behind us.
I spot the taco stand in the distance, lit up with a string of multi-colored lights. A small park resides across the busy street, and a few college-aged kids surround a surging fountain, chowing down on burritos. I suppose we fit in with this demographic, but wherever Lo and I go, I always feel like an outcast. Some things never change past high school.
“Are you cold?” Lo asks.
“Huh? No, I’m fine. My coat is fur-lined.”
“I like it.”
I try to hide the smile. “Check the tag.”
He swiftly falls back with furrowed brows and takes a peek. “Calloway Couture?” He joins my side again. “Rose designed it,” he concludes. “I take it back. It’s ugly.”
I laugh. “I can get her to design you a sweater vest.”
“Stop,” he says with a cringe.
“Or a monogramed shirt. She’ll put your name right over the heart,L-O-R-E-N?—”
He pinches my hips, and I shriek and laugh at the same time. He guides me to the taco stand, his lips by my ear the whole time, whispering some R-rated things that he would like to do to me for being so bad.
“Can we skip the tacos?” I ask, suddenly hot.
