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“Maybe later,” I tell him.
“Maybe.”
The word gives me a thrill. “So, what are you like, Drew?”
“What do I like?”
“No. What are you like?”
“You want me to describe my personality?”
“I could ask her to describe it.” I give a light nod toward Jericho who’s talking with her hands about lash extensions or something.
Drew humors me with a revealing answer. “I always wanted to be the kind of person who could say what you see is what you get, but really I think I’m a series of carefully concealed landmines. Some of them I don’t even know about.”
“What a bizarre way to describe yourself.”
“Accurately?”
I give him an exasperated look. “You know what I mean.”
“I’m depressed, I guess. I mean, I don’t guess. I know I am. I get overwhelmed. I shut down. I explode. But other than that? What you see is what you get.”
I study him a moment, drawn in by his honesty—that soft core, and then the waiter arrives to take our order.
Jericho orders the ravioli, Drew, the lasagna, and the waiter looks at Elodie. The routine goes like this: She says, “I’m still deciding. Skip me.”
I pick up the menu and point at the fettuccine Alfredo. “Does this come with chicken?”
“If you like,” the waiter says.
“Could I get it with shrimp?”
“Of course, sir.”
“Is the shrimp grilled or boiled?”
The waiter begins to understand what he’s dealing with. “Ah…do you have a preference?”
“Grilled.”
The waiter checks for understanding. “The fettuccine with grilled shrimp?”
“If you have angel hair pasta, I prefer that.”
“Of course, sir.”
“And the shrimp—grilled, with butter and lemon?”
The waiter admits defeat. “Angel hair Alfredo with shrimp grilled in butter with lemon.”
“Sounds perfect. Thank you.”
“Of course. And you, miss?”
Elodie, like always, says, “I’ll have the same.”
“Perfect.”
