CHAPTER 7
Mara
The restaurant was dim, with dull lanterns hanging from strings. An overhang stretched above us with fake vines strewn along it. The servers were dressed in gold. Everything clashed, and with my drunk vision, it was hard to comprehend it all.
“They specialize in noodle dishes. Pasta. Udon. Ramen. Spaghetti. Whatever you want,” Dr. Evans said, his hand outstretched behind him, guiding me through the place. We were holding hands. Sort of. The alcohol, which, like I had said, was my third actual drink ever, was making it so that I didn’t care. I didn’t mind touching him at all. In fact, I kind of liked it.
A server wordlessly ushered us to a booth in the corner, the cushions in pink glitter. We slid into the seats across from each other.
“I don’t understand,” I said. I clutched my bag closer to my side, glancing around at the mismatched decor. “It’s like the owner couldn’t make up their mind about which direction they wanted to go. Pretty pink unicorns or tropical castle.”
“It’s the best noodle joint in Vegas,” he said.
I glanced at the menu, a thick wooden booklet full of words. So many words. The truth was that I was glad, practically rejoicing to not be around the other graduate students anymore. If another person made a snide remark about my age, alcohol would have lurched me forward, and I would have done something incredibly stupid, or worse, cried. Nate had been that escape. Whether or not he knew it, and whether I cared to admit it, he had saved me.
But the menu had too many words. And not one of them was carbonara. I couldn’t concentrate on a decision like that right now. I closed it shut.
“The best noodle joint in town, yet no carbonara,” I said.
“You want carbonara?”
“I’ve always wanted to try it.” He studied me like it was the strangest thing I could have said. “What do you suggest?”
“I always get the gochujang noodles,” he said. I raised an eyebrow. Gochu-what? A smirk crossed over Nate’s face at my blatant confusion. “Or the truffle macaroni and cheese.”
I raised a brow. “Is that on the kid’s menu?”
“Nope.”
I shrugged. “Get one of them,” I said. “And I’ll get the other. My treat.”
“Your treat?” he laughed. “Thanks for the offer, but no.”
What was so funny? “Free noodles from your favorite place and you’re going to say ‘no’?”
“Who said it’s my favorite place?”
I crossed my arms. “You wouldn’t have taken me here otherwise.”
He smiled. “Thanks for the offer, but I’m fine.”
Then it hit me. Jessica had said that he had stocks, or investments, or...something. Basically, the important detail was that he had money. A lot of it. I rolled my eyes. “Oh, that’s right, you’re Mr. Millionaire.Professor Millionaire.My bad.”
“Billionaire, actually.”
“Whatever.”
The amused look never left his face. “That’s twice that you’ve tried to buy me something.”
I threw up my hands. “What? A grad student can’t offer a professor a nice gesture? Where’s that written in the handbook of etiquette for scholars?” The server returned, and I sat up, hunching over the menu. “Uh, what did you say that first one was called?”
“Gochujang noodles.”
“Yeah. I’ll have that.”
Dr. Evans ordered two drinks of water, and we waited in awkward silence. Should I bring up the contest, or let the silence stew? I wished the server had left the menu so I could pretend I was busy dissecting each dish. Instead, I stared at him. In a business casual button-up shirt, without his usual sweater vest to accompany it, Dr. Evans looked well-kept. A youthful, but professional style, even if the sparse grays gave him away. The laugh lines around his eyes. Dr. Evans always dressed well. It wasn’t that he flaunted labels or bragged about his clothing, but you could always tell that his stuff was high quality, that it wouldn’t fall apart after a few washes. On the other hand, I wanted to look stylish, but I never cared enough to actually pursue it. I cared more about books, films, and movies, studying why people did what they did, learning about human behavior, the drive for interdisciplinary art, the hunt for what brought us together.
So what had brought us together, Dr. Evans and me? Was it my unrelenting need to compete in the contest? Was it the fact that I hated that he told me ‘no’ before he even knew anything about me? Was it because of something else, a curiosity that took hold of me from the moment I saw him outside of school, preparing his demonstration in the dungeon? In truth, I thought I would use this night to find another adviser, someone to work with next year, a better match. But in the end, I had made my decision. I had even invited Dr. Evans here.
