“No way, take it home for leftovers. That’s all yours,” he says, popping a fry into his mouth.
Thinking on the fly, I tell him, “I don’t have room in my fridge for leftovers.” Reaching across the table, I pick up his fork and hand it to him. “Dig in.”
As soon as he takes the first bite, I fall back into conversation about New York, hoping he’ll eat while I talk. Occasionally, I take a bite just to keep up the ruse, but there are nine pounds of tenderloin fillets in my fridge right now. I really don’t need this meal.
My plan is working, but then my phone pings where it sits on the table.
My stomach roils at the name on the screen. Instinctively, I open the message just so my brain can move on, but that was a mistake.
Dahlia
Merry Christmas, Tal. Hoping your day is merry and bright ;)
*Picture message*
The picture isof a naked Dahlia wrapped in colored lights, wearing a Santa hat.
Immediately, I lock my screen and slam my phone on the table face-down.
“Everything okay?” Zeke asks as my phone pings again.
This time, I put it on silent without opening the damn message.
“Um, yeah. Just an ex trying to…well, I’m not sure what she was trying to do, actually.” I laugh.
Zeke hums noncommittally across the table, his pout a clear indicator that he’s not a fan of talking about my exes.
“Well, I think I’ve yammered on enough. What about you?” I ask, hoping to glean more information about the man sitting across from me.
“What about me?” he asks.
“Any siblings, pets, or hopeful exes?” I joke.
“None of the above,” he says simply.
“I think you mentioned you’re from here, is that right?” I don’t want him to feel like he’s being interrogated, but I’m suddenly desperate for any information he’ll share.
“Mmhmm,” he mumbles around a bite of food.
It doesn’t take long to realize he’s not going to volunteer anything directly personal, so I change the topic.
“Are you excited about the play?” I ask.
At this, hefinallyshows a spark of life.
“Yeah. Everyone’s worked really hard on it. We have a fewmore regular rehearsals, two full dress rehearsals, and then it’ll be opening night.”
“What’s your favorite part about being on stage?”
The way his eyes light up at this question is unmistakable, and something pinches in my chest. It’s like he’s been waiting to answer this question his whole life, and no one’s bothered to ask.
“I love being able to step into someone else’s shoes. I mean, my life’s never really been all that great, so the escape from reality is definitely an appealing part of the process, but I like the challenge in feeling a character’s emotions and making them believable.” Zeke talks faster the more excited he gets. I’m pretty sure this is the most words I’ve ever heard him speak at one time. “I love the lessons we learn from the stories being told, and how they can help people relate to others they may never otherwise interact with. I love the way a physical appearance can transform with the right makeup and the way a character’s personality can affect me psychologically.”
When he pauses, I don’t fill the silence. I never want him to think my words are more important than his. I’m rewarded when he begins talking again after swallowing his latest bite of barbecue.
“The theater in Ricochet has been my outlet since I was little. I was in every school play we had…not that my parents came to see me in them, but people still clapped. It wasn’t the validation I needed, but it was validation nonetheless, and it felt good.”
My heart splinters in my chest for the little boy who took a bow and never got to see his mother beam with pride or feel her arms around him.
