Hollis peeks at my phone, then throws his head back against the driver’s seat. “Jesus. You are the most... the most—”
“The most what?”
“Just the absolute goddamn most, Millicent.”
“Thank you,” I say, still focused on the reviews. Maybe I will suddenly know how to read Polish if I stare at my phone hard enough. I want to know why they gave José Napoleoni’s one star when the other three ratings were comment-less fives, but not enough to bother messing with Google Translate.
“You’ll get into a car with any ol’ stranger you meet at the airport, but when it comes to trying a new restaurant you’re all ‘Ah, I don’t know, I really better do my research before agreeing to this.’ ”
“Listen.” I turn my body in my seat to give Hollis my full attention, because this is important for him to understand if we’re going to be spending a significant amount of time together. “I have never once claimed to make sense as a person. And I would appreciate it if you would stop remarking on my idiosyncrasies as if you’ve caught me in some continuity error.”
HisC-on-its-face frown flattens into a contrite straight line. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”
My head tilts and my eyes narrow in confusion; it’s as if Hollis is speaking to me in an extinct language. “Wait. That was an apology. A real one, with no ‘but’ or ‘it’s just that’ trailing behind.”
“Yeah. Do you have to sound so accusatory about it? I did something that upset you. I don’t want to do that. I’m notthatmuch of a jerk. So I said I’m sorry, and I’m going to stop doing the thing. This isn’t exactly rocket science.”
“You wouldn’t think so, no,” I say.
You can always judge a person by the quality of their apology, Mrs. Nash reminds me from inside the memory of when I found out someone in my grad cohort was hostingPenelope to the Pastviewing parties for the rest of our classmates. I exhale, blowing away the grief that threatens to envelop me like a thick fog. “Also, you didn’t upset me. Just annoyed me a little.”
“Oh. Well, apology rescinded then. Because you’ve annoyed me a little for the past two and a half hours, so we’ll just call it even.”
“Whatever, let’s eat.”
“Let’s,” Hollis says, unbuckling his seat belt.
José Napoleoni, ready your spaghetti tacos. Here we come.
•••
I’m not surprised by the restaurant’s red/green/white color scheme—I mean, it’s the obvious choice, isn’t it? But I am surprised by the giant sombrero-wearing taxidermy bear by the hostess stand, which is presumably posed to be mid-roar but looks more mid-yawn. And I suddenly want nothing more than to put my fingers in the stuffed bear’s mouth and see what it feels like in there. Even if I stand on my tiptoes, though, I think I’ll still be about two inches too short to reach.
Before I can ask Hollis for a boost—which I’m sure would have gone overgreat—a short man with gelled-back black hair and medium-bronze skin appears beside thePlease Wait To Be Seatedsign. “Hola and buonasera,” he says, a large, toothy grin peeking out from under an impressive mustache with the endswaxed into curlicues. “Welcome to José Napoleoni’s Rio Grande Trattoria. I’m José, and I will be happy to take care of you this evening. Follow me, please.”
Hollis and I slide into opposite sides of a booth, and a young waiter with a few wispy black hairs above his top lip trudges over with two glasses of ice water.
“Focaccia and salsa,” José says to him. “My son,” he explains with a fond smile as the teenager walks with an impressive lack of urgency to the kitchen. “Now, what can I get you folks to drink?”
“Just water for me, thanks,” Hollis says, his face buried in the menu.
Okay, I love this place. First the unexpected sleepy bear. Now I find my favorite drink of all time on the menu, and withfree refills. “I’ll have a Shirley Temple.”
“One Shirley coming right up. Ah, thanks, Marco.” José takes the basket of bread from his son and places it in the middle of the red-and-white checkered tablecloth. Marco places a dish of chunky fresh salsa beside it. “Rock salt and cilantro focaccia with fresh pico de gallo,” José explains. “Enjoy.”
“This is certainly interesting,” Hollis says, dipping the bread into the salsa. I watch as he brings it to his mouth and his teeth disappear into the pillowy focaccia. He has a really nice mouth when it’s not scowling at me. “It’s like... Mexican bruschetta?”
“Hmm.” I take a bite. “It’s definitely not bad.”
“What are you getting?” he asks, returning to his menu.
“No idea,” I say. “I usually panic while ordering anyway, so it’s easier not to decide on anything.”
He lowers his menu to reveal his dark eyebrows in aVover his eyes. His heterochromia isn’t as obvious under the red-and-green stained-glass pendant light hanging above our booth.
“You panic?” he asks.
I nod and use the small spoon in the salsa dish to scoop more tomato and onion onto my bread. “Sometimes when faced with too many choices, I panic when it comes time to commit and I choose something completely different. Like I’ll want the chicken, but find myself ordering steak. And it’s always fine. I’m not picky or anything. But then I always regret not getting the chicken. So if I never decide to want the chicken to begin with, I won’t be as disappointed when I don’t order it.”
