I stop walking.
She notices and turns around. “What?”
“A travel magazine?”
“We were in California and I already knew the only way I could get away was to change my name and location, so we skimmed through a travel magazine. We instantly fell in love with it, and it was within driving distance of one of the universities that accepted me into their program, so we moved.” She shrugs.
I start walking again. “I’m assuming by ‘we,’ you mean you and Marissa.”
“Yep.”
I fight the annoyance building inside me. I know she did what she felt she had to do, but what the fuck? A travel magazine? That’s absurd. This entire thing is absurd. I’m not going to say it, since this is the first normal conversation we’ve had since I arrived. Even though she’s hangry, she’s not giving me clipped answers. She actually seems. . .cordial. I have to say, seeing those pictures is fucking with my anger.
“Well technically, Marissa fell in love with it,” she says. “I just went along with it.”
“So Marissa chose where she wanted to live, and you just agreed?” I ask.
“Yeah,” she says. When she looks at the expression on my face, she adds, “Marissa has done a lot for me. Too much. She’s never turned her back on me and doesn’t have to hide with me. The least I could do was let her pick where she wanted to live.”
She’s not kidding when she says Marissa has done too much for her. It makes sense that Lyla would let her have this one thing. When we finally get to the restaurant, I hold the door open for her and follow her in. It’s not what I expected when she said burgers. It’s a fancy steakhouse.
“You look familiar,” the hostess says the second we walk up to her.
“I must have a familiar face,” I say. “Do you have any tables for two available?”
She stares at me, her eyebrows pulled. She probably saw the news about my retirement everywhere and can’t piece it together. Honestly, any other time, I would have told her, but I’m hungry and the only person I want staring at me is currently focused on the stupid old world map they have hanging on the wall beside her.
“Table for two,” I repeat.
“Oh.” The hostess blinks. “We’re all booked. You can sit at the bar if you’d like.”
I look at Lyla, who shrugs and says, “I prefer the bar anyway.”
I lead her there, instinctively moving my hand back and reaching for hers as we walk. Hers is the only hand I’ve ever held. I remember the way the smile broke across her face–the one I love most–when I told her that. After she left me, when I wasn’t feeling angry, I regretted not being able to hold her hand in public. I expect her to ignore me, but she surprises me by not only putting her hand in mine, but lacing our fingers together. I almost die of a heart attack right there — from fucking hand-holding. I begrudgingly let go when we reach two stools at the corner of the bar. A few other people are sitting here, but the bartender practically runs to us.
“Hey there, Delilah,” he says in a sing-song voice like the song. I roll my eyes.Real clever. “Gin, again?”
“Gin, again.” She gives him her ghost of a smile. “But I also want a burger.”
“Goat cheeseburger cooked medium, right?” he says.
She raises an eyebrow. “Yep.”
The fucker shrugs and smiles like he remembers everyone's order. Yeah, right. Jesus Christ. Does everyone in this city want to fuck her? I can’t blame them, but damn. Give me a fucking break here.
“Oh, I see you brought a friend,” he says, smiling wide as he sets two napkins in front of us. “What can I get for you?”
A friend.It’s like every man in this city read a manual on how to piss me the fuck off. It’s probably a local bestseller. I’m starving and the burger will be the first meal she consumes all day, so I withhold my comments. I’m still giving him a blank stare when Lyla sets her hand over mine. The gesture sends a jolt through me. My eyes snap to hers.
“Just tell him the type of liquor you want, and let him work his magic,” she says, eyes twinkling.
I usually drink my liquor straight up, but I’ll say yes to anything when she’s touching me and looking at me like that.A boat? A car? An airplane?Yes, yes, yes. Unfortunately, nothing that can be purchased with coin would make Lyla’s list.
I look at the bartender. “I’ll take the gin.”
“Any specifications?” he asks. “Not too fruity? Spicy?”
“Surprise me.”
