My phone buzzes.
Caleb
I’m outside.
Miguel
I’m offended you didn’t give me time to make a dramatic entrance.
Caleb
Get your ass out here before I change my mind.
He’s leaning against the passenger side of my truck when I step out of the building, hands in the pockets of some gray slacks and a white shirt that’s unbuttoned just enough to peek at his eclectic tattoo assortment on his chest.
“Jesus Christ,” I mutter and I make the sign of the cross, not that it’s gonna help me much.
Caleb’s cheeks go a little pink. “What?”
“You’re gonna get us kicked out of the restaurant just for existing,” I say. “You look like a sin I’d commit twice.”
He snorts. “Dramatic much. Look who’s talking. You have a nice shirt on and your hair is down and tamed. You look like… a real adult.”
“Don’t start rumors,” I say, opening his door for him. “Get in before I throw you over my shoulder and I end up eating you for dinner instead.”
He flushes deeper, but he does as he’s told.
My good boy.
The place Calebpicked out isn’t fancy-fancy, but it’s still nicer than the usual taco trucks and hole-in-the-wall joints we frequent. Downtown, soft lighting, wood tables, and big windows looking out over the street. The kind of place with a wine list and waiters in black aprons.
The hostess gives us one quick, polite look over but doesn’t blink at two men asking for a table for two. Santa Cruz might have a lot of issues, but at least here, we can mostly just… exist. The table she leads us to is by the window. People walk by in jackets and scarves, lights from the shop signs reflecting in the glass. Inside, it’s warm and low and buzzing.
Caleb slides into the booth across from me, then hesitates, eyes flicking down to his hands.
“You wanna sit next to me, don’t you?” I ask.
He forces out a small laugh. “Yeah, but then we’re just gonna end up making out in a semi-nice restaurant and I’d like to finish my pasta first.”
“Good call,” I say. “Carbs, then public displays of affection that will surely get us banned in the future. I like this plan.”
We order drinks, he gets a soda, and I get a beer—and some ridiculous-sounding appetizer with burrata and roasted tomatoes. Caleb keeps glancing around, and I hate that I know exactly why.
“You okay?” I ask, “We can get it to go if it’s too much.”
“No, I…” Exhaling loudly as he looks around. “This is good. I just… don’t really know how to do this.”
“Do what?” I tilt my head.
“Be… normal.” He gestures around. “Couple-y. In public. Without wondering who’s watching.”
“You’re doing fine,” I say. “You’re killing it, actually. Ten out of ten would take you out again.”
And he smiles, small and real. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” I say. “And if anyone has a problem, I’ll punch them in the jaw like I did to Anderson.”
That makes him laugh, a brief burst that loosens his shoulders. “You can’t punch everyone, Miggy.”
