He blinks, clearly taken aback.
‘You didn’t expect that, did you?’
‘No – and I’m sorry for being— I’m sorry.’
Our waiter returns with espressos and small tulip-shaped glasses filled with dark liqueur, and we pause our conversation. As soon as he leaves, Nick downs his espresso like he’s doing shots at the bar, but I push mine away. If I drink it, I’ll be tiredandwired – and in my experience, that’s a shitty combo.
‘So…’ I say before taking a tiny sip of the liqueur. ‘Holy shit, that’s good.’ I take another sip and smack my lips. ‘So, anyway – you want to know about my family.’
‘Well, they must be proud of you?’ He frames it as a question but it’s more of an assumption.
‘Yeah, sure, they are in their own way. I mean, they couldn’t give two shits about Hollywood or moviemaking – no, hang on, that came out wrong. They like movies and they like that I make movies, but they’re not, like,impressed. They both grew up in LA, and there’s this kind of low-level ambivalence about it all.’
‘So, they’re in the film industry too?’
‘Hah! No. Mom’s an accountant for a big firm in DTLA. And Mama – she’s the one who was pregnant with me – she teaches elementary school – fifth grade.’
‘Interesting.’
‘Orjust a normal, middle-class Californian family,’ I reply, raising my brows at him.
‘Fair,’ he replies with a self-rebuking smile.
He sips his liqueur, turning to face the view. When he licks his lips, a warm sensation blooms deep in my belly. I want to be his bottom lip so badly right now. He puts down the glass, which looks tiny in his big, strong hands – even more so when his forefinger and thumb run up and down the stem.
First I wanted to be a lip and now I want to be a glass –I’mthe moron.
‘Sorry,’ he says, smiling at me, ‘we were talking about you – and your family.’
‘Eh,’ I say, smothering another yawn, ‘I might be all talked out for tonight – and I need to pee,’ I add, unexpectedly overcome with the urge. ‘Mind if I…?’ I ask, getting up.
‘No, of course not. I’ll ask about the bill.’
I’m about to walk off, but I hang back. ‘Whatever True North doesn’t cover, we’re going Dutch, okay?’
‘Sure.’
I narrow my eyes at him.
‘Dutch,’ he reiterates, and only when I’m sure he won’t try and pay the cheque himself, I go and find the bathroom.
While I’m washing my hands, simultaneously checking my reflection for wayward smudges of chocolate, my phone rings inside my purse. Ugh, it’s Nicholas. I take it out and stare at it, paralysed, as it rings four more times, then goes to voicemail.
Am I a bad girlfriend for not wanting to talk to him? Or a pissed-off girlfriend who’s too tipsy to deal with her annoying boyfriend right now?
‘Let’s say the latter,’ I tell myself unconvincingly.
A toilet flushes behind me and an attractive middle-aged woman comes out of the stall. I smile at her in the mirror as she washes her hands, hoping she didn’t catch me talking to myself.
‘Are you enjoying your dinner?’ she asks in a southern accent. I’m notgreatwith accents, but I’d guess Georgia or maybe one of the Carolinas.
‘For sure,’ I reply. ‘We’ve just finished – four courses, each oneincredible.’
‘I saw you and your husband out on the terrace,’ she says, making a huge leap. I don’t bother correcting her. Which I’ll revisit later – or maybe never.
I give her a smile, then slick on some lip gloss. I don’t want to leave just yet – she seems nice and I’m happy to talk to her. I also want to play Nicholas’ message.
‘So, who are you here with?’ I ask.