My heart catches at the proximity of him, and the scent of his cologne sends my pulse racing afresh.
“Hi,” I reply. He pushes the small bunch of flowers into my arms. I glance down at them. “Daisies! You remembered.”
He shrugs, embarrassed. “I’m not going to forget your favourite flower. Assuming they’re still your favourite, of course.”
“Yes, they are. Thanks, Rocco.”
“It’s weird hearing you call me that.”
I laugh. “It’s weird calling you that.”
“You can keep calling me Richard, if you want.”
“Nah, I think Rocco suits you better now.” I take in our location. “So, where have you brought me?”
“It’s a pop-up restaurant. The couple who live here open up their front room once a month and serve guests. The husband does all the cooking, and she is front of house. It’s got great reviews, and I know someone who knows them, and they were able to get us a table.”
“I’ve never been to anything like this before,” I say.
“No, me neither, but I thought it would be more chilled than going to a regular restaurant.”
“You know, when I saw the address on your text, I thought you might have invited me to your place for dinner.”
It’s his turn to laugh. “No, I can’t cook for shit. Sorry.”
“That’s okay. I can be the one to do the cooking.” I realise what I said. It implies we’ll be spending the sort of time together that means one of us would need to be cooking.
Automatically, I want to glance away, but he’s looking at me so intently, the ghost of a smile on his lips, that I can’t help but stare back. I don’t think I’ll ever get over how strange it feels to see him again, like he’s a time travel portal and I can use him to transport me back to a time before my illness had taken over everything. I itch to touch his cheek, to place my palm against his skin and just stare at him for hours, drinking in all the changes that have happened in his face over the years.
“We’d better go in,” he says, breaking the moment. “We don’t want to miss the first course.”
I smile, and we turn together, walking side by side towards the house where the pop-up restaurant is taking place. I’m so conscious of where his body is in relation to mine, and, as our arms brush, I have to physically hold myself back from reaching out and clinging tight to his biceps and telling him how much I’ve missed him and how sorry I am.
He holds the door open for me, and I step inside. Music is playing in the background, something soft, and the living room has been set out with a number of chairs and tables, each with a crisp white tablecloth, polished glasses, and heavy silver wear. Several other people are already in the room—another couple and a table of four. Everyone looks up as we walk in, and I smile around, suddenly shy and tempted to hide behind Rocco.
A woman in her thirties rushes up to us from the back of the house. “Hi, and welcome! You must be… Hmm… Let me guess.” She pauses and taps her finger to her lips. “Sophia and Rocco.”
I smile, immediately warming to the woman. “That’s right.”
“I have a talent for matching faces to names.”
“Oh, right,” I say.
“I’m only joking. You’re our last table in tonight.”
She surprises a laugh from me. “Of course. We’re not too late, are we? That’s my fault.”
“No, no. Not at all. Come through, make yourselves at home. That’s literally what we want you to do tonight. Imagine you’re as comfortable here as you would be in your own house, only we do all of the cooking, and you don’t even have to do the dishes.”
“Sounds great.” Rocco lips tweak upward and he exchanges a glance with me.
“I’m Margarite,” the woman introduces herself. She ushers us over to the table. “Now what can I get you to start? Wine?”
I wave a hand. “Oh, I might have a glass later, but I’ll start with a sparkling water, if that’s okay.” I’m allowed to drink alcohol on dialysis, but not much, and I always have to make sure the amount of liquid I drink during the day isn’t more than I’m allowed.
“I’ll have the same,” Rocco says, smiling his warm smile at Margarite.
He looks tough on the outside, but his smile and the friendliness of his chocolate brown eyes tell a whole other story.
