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The waitress delivered their drinks, and Mike and Xavier chattered on about all the other things they hated about Iceland: that one of the country’s delicacies was rotten shark. How Icelanders all believed that huldufolk—elves—lived in rocks and cliffs. How they all queerly went by first names only, because everyone descended from the same three incestuous Viking tribes.
Every so often, Ella glanced Aria’s way, probably wondering why Aria wasn’t defending Iceland. But Aria simply wasn’t in the mood for talking.
At the end of the dinner, just as they were finishing a plate of the restaurant’s famous homemade organic oatmeal cookies, Mike’s iPhone rang. He looked at the screen and stood up. “Hold on,” he mumbled evasively, ducking out the front door.
Aria and Ella exchanged a knowing look. Usually, Mike had no problem talking on the phone right at the dinner table, even if the conversation was about, say, the size of a girl’s boobs. “We suspect Mike has a girlfriend,” Ella stage-whispered to Xavier. She stood up. “I’ll be back in a minute,” she announced, walking toward the ladies’ room.
Aria fiddled with the napkin in her lap, staring helplessly as Ella wove between the tables. She wanted to follow her mother, but she didn’t want Xavier to know that she didn’t want to be alone with him.
She could feel Xavier’s eyes on her. He took a long, slow sip of his second glass of wine. “You’ve been really quiet,” he pointed out.
Aria shrugged. “Maybe I’m always this quiet.”
“I doubt that.”
Aria looked up sharply. Xavier smiled, but his expression wasn’t particularly easy to read. He plucked a dark green crayon out of the cup and started scribbling on his place mat. “So are you okay with this?” he asked. “Me and your mom?”
“Uh-huh,” Aria answered quickly, fidgeting with the spoon from her after-dinner cappuccino. Was he asking because he sensed she liked him? Or because she was Ella’s daughter, and it was the polite thing to do?
Xavier put the green crayon back in the cup and dug around for a black one. “So your mom said you’re an artist too.”
“I guess,” Aria said distantly.
“Who are your influences?”
Aria chewed on her lip, feeling put on the spot. “I like the surrealists. You know, Klee, Max Ernst, Magritte, M. C. Escher.”
Xavier grimaced. “Escher.”
“What’s wrong with Escher?”
He shook his head. “Every kid at my high school had an Escher poster in their bedroom, thinking they were so deep. Ooh, birds morphing into fish. Wow, one hand drawing another. Different perspectives. Trippy.”
Aria leaned back in her chair, amused. “What, did you know M. C. Escher personally? Did he kick you when you were a little boy? Steal your Big Wheel?”
“He died in the early seventies, I think,” Xavier said, snorting. “I’m not that old.”
“Could’ve fooled me.” Aria raised an eyebrow.
Xavier smirked. “It’s just…Escher’s a sellout.”
Aria shook her head. “He was brilliant! And how can you be a sellout if you’re dead?”
Xavier stared at her for a moment, slowly grinning. “Okay then, Miss Escher Fan. How about a contest?” He twirled the crayon in his hands. “We both draw something in this room. Whoever’s drawing is better is right about Mr. Escher. And the winner gets that last oatmeal cookie.” He pointed at the plate. “I’ve noticed you ogling it. Or haven’t you taken it because you’re secretly on a diet?”
Aria scoffed. “I’ve never dieted in my life.”
“That’s what every girl says.” Xavier’s eyes glimmered. “But they’re all lying.”
“Like you know anything about girls!” Aria crowed, giggling at their banter. She felt like they were in her favorite old movie, The Philadelphia Story, where Katharine Hepburn and Cary Grant got off on bickering constantly.
“I’ll take part in your little contest.” Aria reached for a red crayon. She never could resist showing off her sketching skills. “But let’s give it a time limit. One minute.”
“Got it.” Xavier checked the tomato-shaped clock over the bar. The second hand was at the twelve. “Go.”
Aria searched around the room for something to sketch. She finally settled on an old man hunched at the bar, nursing a ceramic mug. Her crayon flew deftly over the place mat, capturing his weary-but-peaceful expression. After she filled in a few more details, the hand on the clock swept past the twelve again. “Time,” she called.
Xavier covered his place mat with his hand. “You first,” he said. Aria pushed her drawing toward him. He nodded, impressed, his eyes seesawing from the paper to the old man. “How’d you do that in just one minute?”
“Years of practice,” Aria answered. “I used to secretly sketch kids at my school all the time. So does that mean I get the cookie?” She poked Xavier’s hand, which was still covering his drawing. “Poor Mr. Abstract Painter. Is yours so bad you’re embarrassed to show it?”
“No…” Xavier slowly moved his hands away from his place mat. His drawing, all softlines and deft shading, was of a pretty, dark-haired girl. She had big hoop earrings, just like Aria’s. And that wasn’t the only resemblance.
“Oh.” Aria swallowed hard. Xavier had even captured the little mole on her cheek and the freckles across her nose. It was as if he’d been studying her this whole dinner, waiting for this moment.
