Later that evening, I’m setting the table when her key slides into the lock. The dogs respond with their usual symphony of excitement. I’m pretty sure if I had a tail, I’d be wagging it too.
“Clark?” Her voice echoes through the apartment. “I got your note. What’s?—?”
She rounds the corner and takes in the scene with lemur eyes, wide and glassy.
Candles are lit and I set the table with placemats and matching tableware like an adult. The pasta is warm on the stovetop. A salad and freshly baked bread wait for us.
“I misunderstood your note. I didn’t realize you had a date. I’m so sorry. I’ll just take the dogs out really quick and be out of your hair,” she says, rapid fire.
“Dinner is for us. I said I owed you dinner.”
She tips her head to the side in question. “But this looks ...” She trails off and something crosses her face. Worry? Sadness?
“This is for you.”
“For me?”
“I wanted to thank you for agreeing to the campaign. For always being there. For—” I run a hand through my shaggy hair. “I can’t have you subsisting on cans of food made for children.”
“But the SpaghettiOs with meatballs are yummy.”
“I made your favorite.”
Her expression softens as she peers at the stovetop. “Creamy pasta primavera?”
“With chicken.”
“Clark Culpepper, are you trying to butter me up?”
“Is it working?”
“Maybe.” She grins, and the knot in my stomach loosens.
We settle at the table and the dogs immediately post up at our feet in hopes of dropped food. After saying grace, April takes her first bite and practically moans.
“Clark, this is so good.”
“But you don’t want me to let it go to my head?” I supply, using our typical banter.
“Exactly.” She points her fork at me. “But seriously, thank you. I figured you’d be pasta-ed out after dinner at Amore with Posh.”
I snort. “Whitaker set that up. He insists that bolstering my dating life is ‘good for my image’ or whatever. They’re basically fake. Something I do to pay his bills. But the one with Posh was especially—” I squint, trying to come up with a nice but honest way to describe her. “She didn’t even like dogs.”
“She didn’t like dogs?” April sounds personally offended.
“Said they were too much maintenance.”
“Red flag. Giant, waving red flag.” She mocks lifting it up the flagpole.
“Right?” I lean forward. “That’s what I said! Well, not out loud. But I thought it very loudly.”
April laughs with what almost sounds like relief, but that can’t be right. After taking another forkful of food, she hesitates. “So are all the dates Whitaker sets you up on ...”
“Disasters. Dumpster fires. Every single one. He keeps trying to find me someone ‘media-friendly’ who ‘complements my brand.’ Just today, he suggested I go out with Lyric again. That was a ‘hashtag fail.’ I just want—” I falter. I want to say,You. But I can’t play that card either. “I want someone who likes me for me. Who doesn’t care about followers or endorsements or whether I can introduce them to ‘famous players.’ That’s a Lyric direct quote.”
“You are a famous player.”
I snap my fingers and point. “I did voice that one out loud.”
