Once we’re settled in the back seat of the car, I feel more like myself. The restaurant is only a ten-minute drive, so we should arrive about five minutes early.
“Can I ask you a question, man?” the driver asks, looking at me through the rearview mirror.
“Sure,” I respond. This isn’t an unusual request. Actually, it is. Most people aren’t this respectful before invading my personal life.
“Are you Isaac Flores?”
“Yes.” No reason to lie. It will come back to bite me later.
“Cool. You played a damn good game last week. Three touchdowns. Awesome.”
“Thanks. Were you at the game?”
“I wish. I watched it at one of the bars near the stadium and then drove drunk fans home for two hours.” I don’t say anything else. I’m not sure how to respond to that. When Idon’t say anything, he continues. “Guys’ night out or meeting a couple of hot dates?”
“Guys’ night out,” I answer absently.
“Nice. I bet you two will have hot chicks hanging all over you tonight.”
“Maybe.”
He snorts. “Maybe, my ass. Famous people get all the bitches. It unfair to rest of the population.”
Thankfully, we pull up in front of the restaurant and this ridiculous conversation ends. I add a tip to the app and thank him for the ride.
“Good evening, sir, do you have a reservation?” the hostess asks when we walk inside.
“Yes, Flores for two.”
She picks up a couple of menus, “Right this way, gentleman.” She leads us to a table near the back. It’s enough out of the way that we won’t have people gawking at us if they recognize me, but not so secluded that it’s private or appears to outsiders that we’re on a romantic date. The more time I spend with Evan, the more I hate feeling I need to keep us a secret. It’s hard not to hold his hand every time I’m near him.
“Your waitress will be right with you,” the hostess states while handing us each a menu and a list of specials.
“Thank you,” Evan and I say at the same time.
Evan looks over the menu and I can’t help but watch him. He’s in awe. Francisco’s is impressive from the expensive, wooden features, gold-etched fixtures, and white-linen tablecloths to the impressive wine list and variety of dinner and dessert options.
“They are known for their steaks and seafood, but everything is delicious, especially their desserts.”
“How can I possibly choose?”
“I’m getting the bluefin tuna. It pairs well with theirsignature pinot noir,” I tell him, referring to the list of Francisco’s wine. The owners also have a winery in France.
“I’m thinking about getting this blue-cheese-encrusted filet.”
“It’s phenomenal and will go well with the pinot. If you’re interested, I’ll order us a bottle.”
“That sounds perfect. I want to taste your tuna if you don’t mind,” he sounds skeptical like he shouldn’t have asked for a taste of my food.
“Bite for a bite,” I agree.
“What?”
“It’s something we did as a family when I was a kid. We couldn’t afford to eat out often, so when we did, it was a treat. All five of us would order something different and trade a bite for a bite with each other so we could taste all the dishes.”
“Bite for a bite,” he repeats. “I like it. Deal.”
After we order and have our bottle of wine, we fall into easy conversation. Evan is completely relaxed and seems genuinely happy. It’s nice to see him this way. I was worried about him after he told me about his asshole ex earlier this week. I’d like to get my hands on that jerk. How can anyone treat Evan that way? He’s a wonderful man and deserves to be treated like a prince or maybe a king.