I didn’tfeelhumiliated. At least, not until he said that.
“How is it?” Oliver asks.
Like an old wound that’s been scratched open, visions of Daniel bleed through my mind. The worst of them are the ones where he wasn’t present at all. The ones where I was left alone, crying on my bed in the fetal position, during one of the worst times of my life. Just as quickly as the flood starts, though, it stops. My sister’s voice and the deal I made with her slap a Band-Aid over the hole in my heart. Tonight isn’t about the past.
“Good,” I say. With the right company, it could even be great.
“Maybe we can go there together sometime,” he says, shoving his hands in his pockets.
“Maybe,” I say, and I’m surprised to find I actually mean it. “Speaking of food, there’s a really cool place around the corner. How do you feel about nachos?”
He grins. “Are you kidding me? If you don’t like nachos, then I’mnachotype.”
“Wow,” I say with a laugh. “How long have you been waiting for the right moment to use that in a normal conversation?”
“Long enough that I should probably be embarrassed by the answer.”
“But you’re not,” I say. It’s not a question or a judgment. It’s more that I’m…impressed—fascinated by this guy who doesn’t take himself too seriously.
“Not even a little,” he says with a smile I can’t help but return. I like how comfortable Oliver is in his own skin. He doesn’t seem concerned about what other people think, and that intrigues me.
We walk the short distance to Chips on the Table, a hole in the wall nacho bar that has shelves filled with every board game under the sun and a wall lined with retro arcade games.
Oliver’s eyes widen, and a soft gasp escapes him as we step inside. “No way.”
“What do you think?” I ask.
“I think I’m going to kick your butt at some Skee-Ball.”
Hands on my hips, I lift my chin. “Game on.”
“Table six,”the cashier calls, sliding a tray the size of a trough onto the counter.
“That’s us,” Oliver says, jumping up to retrieve our order.
We’ve already played three rounds of Skee-Ball, which I won before we moved on to the off-road racing game where Oliver proceeded to beat me twice. I enjoyed every second of it. My mind never wandered. My thoughts didn’t spiral to all the dark possibilities that have been lurking in my head like shadows. I was having too much fun for that.
After a round of Pac-Man, we decided to stop long enough to order some dinner and drinks.
“These look amazing,” Oliver says, placing the mountain of nachos on the table.
My stomach growls, and I reach for a chip piled high with buffalo chicken, tomatoes, onions, jalapeños, cilantro, a drizzle of blue cheese dressing, and of course, lots of melty cheese.
My eyes practically roll back in my head when I take that first bite. “To call these nachos almost seems like an insult. These are more like a religious experience.”
He pops a loaded chip into his mouth, then presses his hand to his chest. “Wow. Ohwow. These are good.”
“They’ll definitely ruin all other nachos for you.”
“I haven’t had one of those in ages,” Oliver says, gesturing toward my drink.
“A Shirley Temple?” I ask, and he nods. “I love these things. They remind me of my dad.”
“Was that his favorite drink?”
“Yeah,” I say with a smile. “He used to make them for me when I was a kid. Whether it was after a bad day or if I was celebrating something like a good grade on a test, he’d make Shirley Temples, and we’d just sit and talk. We called it ‘bartender time.’ Now I understand it was because bartenders are such good listeners.”
“That’s sweet,” he says.
