I don't know when I decided to be a fun guy, but yet, here I am. I've never played two truths and a lie with anyone. Ever. My sister told me about it when it was used as an icebreaker at a real estate conference or some such nonsense. I explain the rules to Gabriel, who is looking at me with a curious but baffled expression. We each tell each other three 'facts' about ourselves. Two are true and one is a lie and the other person has to guess the lie.
“I think I like this,” Gabriel says and there’s a glint of excitement in his eye as he leans forward.
We don’t start until after the waiter has delivered our appetizers and asked about a main. Gabriel keeps his eyes on me as he tells our server, “We’ll share the filet mignon. Medium, with peppercorn sauce, and asparagus instead of potato.”
I give my head the slightest shake. Gabriel catches it. “Make that almond green beans. Not asparagus.Merci.”
We don’t address the fact that he orders for us without asking or that he reads my gentle cues and pivots without an explanation. We both just lean forward and dip into the appetizers. I lay my linen napkin, the color of an evergreen, across my lap and pick up my fork. “Do you want to go first?”
Gabriel picks up a piece of the baguette and as his eyes drop to the melting brie dusted with cranberries and thyme, he speaks. “I’m allergic to peaches. I’ve fucked another driver currently racing in F1. I once had a cat named Edith Piaf.”
See? This is why I don't try to be fun. Because it ends up not being fun. I'm going to have to wonder for the next several weeks maybe months, about which guy he fucked. Now I'll spend my spare time staring at each of the other drivers trying to figure out who got what I didn't have the balls to take when it was offered—a night with Gabriel.
Gabriel smiles cheekily as he waits for my guess. I swallow down a bite of salad and reach for my wine again. “I’ve never heard of anyone being allergic to peaches, but I assume it’s possible. I also know, from my extensive research on Allard Couture, that Louis Allard is allergic to cats and dogs. Extremely. So that’s the lie.”
Gabriel doesn't say anything at first and he has quite the poker face so I can't read him but of course I'm right. Finally, he says, "What driver do you think I fucked?"
“I’m trying not to think about it,” I admit and refuse to move my eyes off the salad. If I look him in the eye, I’ll turn redder than the wine. “I mean, there are a lot of options. Rivera. He’s smoldering hot and has a sexy accent. Grady Lewis? He’s super cute and you and him are buddy-buddy in the interviews I’ve stumbled across. For research.”
“For research, of course,” He nods and a smug smirk appears, then disappears. “Grady is one of my only friends on the circuit. Great guy. But no, I haven’t fucked him.”
I gently pour some vinaigrette over the greens, focusing on it like it’s the most taxing thing I’ve ever had to do. And then, like the fool I am, I keep talking. “Nord. He’s a prince. Of course it was Nord. Who wouldn’t fuck a prince?”
"Me," Gabriel says flatly and I finally dare to look at him. He shrugs. "First of all I had zero clue Nord was gay and I Karted with him for years when we were younger. Also, he's not my type. Too blond and too proper. I like guys with darker hair and darker eyes who act all uptight but come apart eventually. Like in saunas or on a yacht at midnight."
I nearly choke on a carrot.
Gabriel dunks a chunk of baguette into the creamy, oozing cheese and then into his perfect mouth. He makes me wait as he chews and swallows. “There are female drivers too. Samantha and Lucia. I’m bi, remember?”
“Okay so was it Samantha or Lucia?”
“It was Edith Piaf,” Gabriel replies and I can’t stop my face from scrunching up awkwardly in confusion. If People or Just Jared are snapping a photo right now, it probably looks like I sucked on a lemon or smelled a fart. Great. “Edith is a cat. I had a cat once.”
My shoulders drop slightly in relief. He catches it. I can tell by the smile on his lips. He likes that I’m relieved. “I found the scraggly little calico under the porch of our summer house in Saint Jean de Luz when I was eleven. She was a sad, needy little thing and I knew that my father would gladly take her to a shelter if I told him about her, but I was also a sad, needy little thing that summer.”
Oh, my heart.
"Dad was dating a new guy at the time. New relationships always sucked up a lot of his time. And he was launching the luggage line, so he was particularly distracted that summer. So instead of telling him, I just kept her. Under the porch at first, giving her blankets and food and water. I even got the cook to buy me some flea medication so I could get the bugs off her. And then when we got a few days of hard rain and low temperatures I was beside myself. Worried about her out there, alone and cold and wet, so I snuck out there in the middle of the night and took her to my room. My room became her room. She'd jump in and out of my window which was thankfully on the ground floor, and I'd sneak her around the house when Dad was out. She slept in my bed, or under it, or in my closet for six weeks. Ask Louis about the worse-than-normal allergies he had that summer. He blames climate change, but it was Edith Piaf. I named her that because Piaf was my dad's favorite French singer and this cat's purr reminded me of her gravelly voice."
“Why only six weeks?” I ask as he holds up a piece of baguette with cheese clinging to it and offers it to me. I lean closer and open my mouth and he pops it in. It feels somehow erotic even though I don’t think he means it that way. “Did you get caught? Did she end up at a rescue?”
“She ended up under the maid’s tire. Total accident,” Gabriel replies. “I cried like I’d lost a parent, which baffled my father as he thought it was just a random stray. Now your turn.”
He says it like his story didn’t just break my heart. It did. I can picture sad, needy young Gabriel losing his only furry little friend and the ache in my chest is overwhelming. He loses the twinkle in his eye and says with an undertone of seriousness, “Don’t. It’s okay. I am over it. Mostly. Now please, your turn.”
I sigh and try to shake off the sadness. “I’m scared of heights. I grew up with an Oscar on the mantle in our living room. My sister’s middle name is Black-Heart.”
Okay, that was a lame bunch of info, but I'm really bad at this. I hate sharing personal information with anyone. Gabriel has stopped eating and is just staring at me with a narrowed gaze like he's trying to use a Jedi mind trick to see into my soul for the right answer. "First of all, your sister's middle name isn't a fact aboutyou.”
"Yes, it is. Sort of. My parent's horrible naming skills affect my life too," I argue and he lifts a lone eyebrow in rebuttal. I surrender. "Fine. Whatever. How about… I'm scared of heights. I grew up with an Oscar on the mantle in our living room. I own a small cattle ranch in the outback."
Gabriel has time to think about it because the waiter swings by to clear our finished appetizer plates and put the steak down, with two plates and fresh cutlery. When he’s gone I realize that salad was definitely not enough food. My mouth is watering as I look at the steak so I dive in without waiting, cutting off a chunk and popping it into my mouth. It’s incredible and I let out a little groan.
Gabriel laughs. “Well, you are definitely not a guy who could devour a steak like that if you owned cows. You’re too sensitive. You’re… what is the English term? Bloody heart?”
I swallow down the steak and cover my mouth with my napkin as I laugh. “Bleeding heart?”
He nods, his sandy hair tumbling across his brow and into his eyes. He pushes it back absently. “Yes. That’s you. You may eat meat but you couldn’t raise it and kill it. You’d blame yourself for each cow’s death like you seem to blame yourself for everything. So, no. You don’t own a cattle ranch because you wouldn’t be eating the steak with suchjoie de vivre.”
