Page 120 of True Colors

“For the presentation on Friday?”

She tips her chin in acknowledgement.

The elevator beeps. We step inside. I’ve kissed her in this car so many times. After a long day of work, desperate to touch her, have her.

I’m still as desperate, but I no longer have that right.

“Ah…it’s…w-would you…would you join me for dinner?”

Her brows knit, surprised. “Dinner?”

“Yeah.” I am so scared, it’s amusing.

I, Luther Grant, who doesn’t do fear is afraid of being rejected by the woman he loves.

Makes sense.

The elevator dings and settles as the doors open.

She steps out first. I follow her.

She pauses, her back to me for a long moment, and then I hear her say, to my relief, “Okay.”

I walk her bicycle and her a few blocks away to a restaurant we’ve been to before on a day like this, when we’ve been working late.

Then, she looked at me with love, and my heart felt like it would burst with joy. Now, she doesn’t look at me at all, and I’m scared shitless.

We go to Bix, which is tucked behind an unassuming brick façade. It’s my kind of place.

White tablecloths. Low amber light. Burnished dark wood.

A pianist plays old-school jazz near the bar.

HelixSphere feels far away, held at arm’s length.

Anouk orders the Sakura pork chops, served with Pernod-glazed apples, dandelion greens, and fennel cream. I go for the true and tried, the petrale sole meunière, which they do exceptionally well here, with potatoes, pearl onion confit, and brown butter.

She asks me to order the wine that goes with her meal because I insist she should get a glass. “Or I will be drinking alone.”

She rolls her eyes. “Fine.”

The Somm and I decide that for pork chops and fish, the best accompaniment will be the Littorai Pinot Noir from the Russian River Valley.

“It’s precise and restrained,” she assures us in an accent that is distinctly French. “Red cherry, forest floor, just enough earth to make you happy.”

She’s not wrong, but then she knows me well, as I come here a lot.

The wine is elegant without being pretentious. It doesn’t compete with the food…or the conversation. It’s easy drinking on a Wednesday night.

“Are you nervous about the presentation?” I ask even though the last thing I want to do is talk about work and ruin the mood. But she might need my help, and I don’t want to shy away from it because it’s going to make me uncomfortable. I think I’ve put my comfort over hers enough.

“A l-little,” she admits, swirling the wine in her glass and then sniffing it.

“You’re going to be fine,” I try to reassure her.

She sips her wine and sets it down on the table. “T-two days ago, you s-said⁠—”

I place my hand on hers, cutting her off. “Two days ago, I was a scared moron.”