Then, nothing.
I turn around and offer him a hand, to help him stand up outside of the car, and we look at the great big empty space in front of us.
“Uh,” Luca says, making his littleWell, look at thatface. “Maybe we should have called the press?”
I can’t help it. I laugh. I laugh until I can’t stand upright, and go to lean against the car, but it’s not there anymore, so Luca has to reach out and keep me from falling on my ass in the street.
There are a couple of other people milling out—thankfully dressed as nicely as we are—and they give us strange glances, but that’s the most attention we’ll be getting tonight, it seems.
“Maybe you’re not actually famous,” I say, practically weeping from laughter. “Fuck, that’s funny. Why did we just think the press would be here?”
“Maybe they’re all back in Milwaukee, crawling through my bushes,” Luca grouses, holding his hand out to me and glancing at his watch again. “Come on—we’re going to miss our reservation.”
Part of me wants to point out that if there’s nobody here to take our picture and announce to the world that we’retogether, it doesn’t really make sense to even bother with the reservation.
But, I took the time to shave. And exfoliate. And I’m standing here looking and feeling nice. Besides, Luca’s going to pay for my meal. I know because it’s the kind of person he is, and also because I made sure to include that in my contract.
In not so many words, I specified that thefilthy richperson would be footing the bills for these expensive dates.
So, we walk into the restaurant together. It’s exactly what I expected, with a massive, LED-lit fish tank in the foyer and a tuxedoed host greeting us at the door. They lead us to our table, which is tiny—fitting for the tiny little dishes.
I expect Luca—a broad-shouldered and generallylargeman—to be frustrated at the meal. To complain about the tiny portions and make comments about being hungry when we leave.
But, to my surprise, he makes comments about the taste and texture of each dish. Like we’re at an art gallery, and he’s assessing the food for various elements. It’s like he’s taking an exam at the table, detailing what he notices about each one.
“What?” he finally asks, when I must give him one-too-many incredulous looks.
“Sorry, I just expected a Midwest guy like yourself to complain about the tiny plates,” I say, gesturing at the table, where a tiny little toast with tiny little orange spheres sits. “I thought you might want to go to an Outback after this.”
“Okay,” he says, shaking his head and wiping his mouth with the cloth napkin in a way that shoulddefinitelynot draw my eye like this. “First of all—I was raised in Colorado. Which you would know, if you’d done any sort of research. Second, I’m much more of a Texas Roadhouse kind of man.”
“Because of the rolls?”
“What rolls?”
“Luca, are you serious?”
“Yes, of course it’s because of the fucking rolls, Wren—”
“And how are we enjoying the appetizer course?”
We both turn to the server, voicing “It’s so good”and “Loving it, thank you” while the server nods and smiles before telling us he’ll bring out the next course.
“Also,” Luca says, returning to the conversation the moment the guy is gone. “Why would I complain about the meal? I looked it up before we came, saw what we’d be served, and made sure to eat something at the hotel.”
My mouth drops open, and incredulous laugh coming out. “You ate at the hotel? Before dropping hundreds of dollars on this?”
“I was going to be hungry,” Luca says, “I just played awholehockey game!”
“What did you eat?” He looks ashamed for a moment, and I lean forward, prodding at his forearm with my fork, which is definitelynotfine dining behavior. “Luca, what did you eat?
“Taco Bell,” he whispers, and I sit back so suddenly in my seat that our approaching server actually looks worried for a moment. I shoot him a sheepish look—I should be more careful with the furniture. Each of these pieces was probably hand-carved in the Himalayas or something like that.
“Wagyu beef,” the server says, delivering two plates, each with a perfect cube of meat and a little dribbling of red sauce around it. “Enjoy.”
He leaves, and Luca picks up his fork, not looking at me. “Don’t tell Coach. In fact, don’t tell anybody—that’s on Rule Six.”
Rule Six in our initially handwritten document, that Luca typed and shared to me last night. Each of us agrees to keep things shared in private, or witnessed in private, just that. Private.
