“Buenas noches, señoras! I’m Carlos, your maestro de mesas tonight!” His voice boomed just enough to draw a few heads but not enough to be obnoxious.
He plucked one of the folded cloth napkins from the table and flicked his wrist, like a matador tempting a bull, before laying it across Eva’s lap. The movement was automatic, muscle memory taking over like he’d done the motion thousands of times.
When he pulled his hand back, I witnessed how his body seemed to jerk to attention. Recognition colored his features when his eyes locked on Eva.
He made an involuntary noise. “Oh! It’s you!”
Carlos looked quickly in my direction as if to decide if I was famous or not, too. I smiled weakly, anticipating his disappointment.
“Carlos, can we get two glasses of the house red?” Eva asked.
He snapped his gaze back to Eva. “Si, yes, of course!”
Carlos vanished toward the bar, and I let myself exhale. It shouldn’t have surprised me that our waiter recognized her, even in a different country, but small interactions like that only reminded me of the level of Eva’s celebrity. My girlfriend wasn’t just a professional basketball player; she was an international brand. I didn’t know if I’d ever get used to that.
I took a sip of my water and glanced around the restaurant, trying not to look like I was checking for witnesses. But it was impossible to ignore the undercurrent of attention that had begun to ripple in our direction.
Our table wasn’t in the center of the restaurant, but I couldn’t help feeling like a fish in a glass bowl. Every cellphone seemed to be tilted in our direction. They weren’t taking photos of their respective dinner plates—they all seemed to be watching us.
I held my hand over my mouth like a football coach trying to avoid a playcall from being intercepted by the opposing team.
“Is it just me, or is everyone looking at us?”
Eva only smiled encouragingly. She had far more experience being under the spotlight.
“Let them look,” she said gently. “No one else matters right now.”
I looked across the table at Eva, who sat back comfortably in her chair, seemingly unfazed by the attention. She draped her arm casually along the back of her seat. She didn’t flinch underscrutiny. She didn’t shrink or mask herself or try to make herself smaller.
Across from her, I felt the opposite. Overexposed. A little unsteady. But then her foot brushed mine beneath the table—barely a touch, featherlight—and the noise around us dulled.
“Hey,” she said softly, just for me.
My gaze lifted to hers.
“You okay?” she asked, her voice low, careful.
I nodded, even though I wasn’t sure. I felt split in two—half of me floating somewhere above the table, trying to calculate how many people had their cameras pointed our way. The other half was under the surface, tethered to Eva, drawn to her calm like gravity.
Her fingers found mine again, reassuring and warm.
“Don’t disappear on me,” she said gently.
That pulled a small smile from me. “I won’t.”
“Good.” She gave my hand a squeeze. “Because I was really looking forward to dinner with my girlfriend.”
That word—girlfriend—settled something inside me.
I took a breath. “Well, your girlfriend is about to make a bold menu choice.”
“Oh?”
“The habanero shrimp.”
She gave me a look of pure disbelief. “Lex. You’re a white girl from Wisconsin. You think mayo is spicy.”
“I have a very sophisticated palate,” I defended myself.
