“You mean I might get one sooner than that?”
I don’t answer him. And he doesn’t press the issue.
We weave through town, and then he takes the road out toward the ranches on the east side of town. When he pulls into the parking lot of Ulysses S. Grant steakhouse, I turn to him.
“EJ! Grant’s?”
“Hmmm?” He’s the picture of innocence.
“This is a date night restaurant.”
“That it is.” He pulls the keys out of the ignition and opens his door, jogging around the front of the truck to open mine.
I hop down.
“This is too fancy,” I tell him.
“Did you want me to take you to the Dairy Mart for a slushie and a corndog?”
I laugh. “No. Not really. Anyway, I’m taking the boys there tomorrow night.”
“Well then, let’s go enjoy some steak.”
“Alright,” I relent.
He puts his hand on my back again. I can’t help myself when my eyes drift shut for half a second. I hope he doesn’t notice. I touch people all day long, draping them with capes,washing their hair, cutting and styling. Some of my customers hug me. Then I get home and the boys climb me like a jungle gym. We have bedtime snuggles every night. I’m not starving for touch. But this? The way his hand feels on my back? It feels like the first time I’ve been touched in years.
EJ gives the hostess our name and she weaves through the front room, leading us to a table in the back corner of the back room, close to the large stone fireplace. It’s not lit this time of year, but in the winter, they always have it going. We’re next to a window that looks out over a bunch of open land with woods at the distant edge. The sun is going down and the whole world looks a little magical.
The waitress stops by our table to ask us what we want to drink. I stare at the menu like I’ve never read a list of beverages before.
“What’s something you never get?” EJ asks me—as if the waitress isn’t standing there waiting.
I stare back at him, directly into his eyes, which are chocolate brown and lightly crinkled around the edges—his easy warmth, aimed straight at me.
“I like lemonade,” I say, practically losing track of where we are and what I’m actually saying.
“Strawberry lemonade?” he asks, not taking his eyes off mine.
“I do like that,” I admit, like it’s a secret and he’s the only one who can know.
“Two strawberry lemonades,” he says, turning to the waitress.
“I’ll be right back with those,” she says.
Then EJ turns back to me. “I like the way they make them here. They dip the rim of the Mason jar in sugar. And they put chunks of the berries in the drink. So good.”
I smile, resting my elbows on the table and my chin on the back of my interlaced hands.
“You’re always happy, aren’t you?” I ask him.
“Definitely not,” he says a little too quickly.
“No?”
“No. I was in sheer misery before you said yes to this night out.”
“Stop it, EJ,” I warn him.
