Page 118 of Fate Fiction

“What, like sitting in the back of limos taking calls with your agent as every cab driver in the borough honks at you?”

He grimaced at me then focused back on the road. Few things in this life were constant, the sun would rise in the morning and I’d make subtle digs at Evan McLeod for being rich and famous as a defense mechanism.

“No, no, there’s always this awkward power exchange between myself and private car drivers, when I drive I have control and solace. So I’m the one who has the pleasure of being honked at.” He whipped in front of a line of cars merging, bringing about a timely cacophony of honking at his maneuver. I’d underestimated him.

I casually pointed out recommendations as we went through Back Bay. Anything to avoid talking about me, about us. Noting a coffee shop or ramen spot was easy, they were places he could pretend to be interested in and never visit.

Hypothetical dates we would have gone on in a life where I didn’t run away from him.

Even the street outside Lunar felt like a different universe. Sleek black cars lined up at the valet, women with bags that cost more than six months of my rent. Evan’s truck seemed out of place, until the valet recognized him and offered a sharp nod. He quickly ran around the car to toss the valet a small stack of cash and open the door for me. I was about to be immersed in a space far outside my scope of daily life. It’s not that luxury was foreign, but dinners like these were few and far between. I’d grown up comfortable, not in opulence. In those few seconds still in the warmth of the car I inhaled the fleeting familiarity.

Evan opened the door with a broad smile and extended his hand. I tentatively took it and he escorted me from the car in a way that had the practiced familiarity of being rehearsed. The building before us was massive, Lunar was perched on the roof and inside there was a sleek black marble elevator that went directly to the restaurant entrance. I had embarrassingly scrolled through countless videos of reviews to wrap my head around what to expect. I wanted to prove that I belonged there, and by default belonged with him.

We stood pensively on opposite sides of the elevator, both quietly watching the numbers tick up as we ascended. My throat was tight, and I could feel myself sweating despite the cold February air we’d stepped through a few seconds ago. Dinner in September hadn’t brought about such anxiety. But I had control then, I was on the home turf, it was a game I could win if I needed to. We now stood on foreign ground, a veritable no man’s land.

Evan drummed his fingers nervously on the railing, he had such an obvious tell. All the money, the designer clothes, the perfect face for the screen, all of it faded to become this inelegant twenty-something with a nervous tick. I looked at the floor, my dark shadowy reflection stared back. As we ascended I noticed he was sans Clark Kent disguise tonight. A small detail, perhaps, but I wondered if maybe he wanted to be seen, and be seen with me specifically. I tucked the thought away.

When the elevator doors opened we were faced with a downright enchanting space, every surface of the restaurant was black except for lights dotted across the ceiling and walls to signify stars, and in the center there was a large circular bar with a massive glowing moon in the middle of it. I’d never set foot in a space quite like it, I had to physically clasp my jaw shut to keep it from falling to the floor. Evan approached the host stand and the host quickly hurried us out to the patio. I stared at the details as his hand grabbed mine again and pulled me along. The space was so enrapturing that I hardly noticed the fact that he was holding my hand in public. Our table was placed off in a corner directly underneath a patio heater, it overlooked the entire city skyline, and we were practically backed up against the Prudential Center. The actual stars that evening were a joke compared to the faux ones that dotted the restaurant inside.

What I would’ve given to be eating cheap snacks around a real fire underneath a sparkling blanket of real stars instead. I’d romanticized my past in a way that was so cruel to myself. The dress I was in was clinging to my body in a way that made me want to crawl out of my skin, the wind from the bay was whipping around my ankles, my jacket was stiff and growing too warm. I was deeply uncomfortable and itched for a run. Evan grinned from around his propped up menu, as if I was supposed to be delighted to even be at a place like this.

A server skated over, startling me when she silently appeared tableside wearing a sleek all black outfit and a harsh slicked back ponytail.

“Good evening,” she said with an untraceable posh accent. “Have you dined with us before?”

I wanted to laugh and say “obviously not, look at me,” but Evan politely chimed in with, “we have not, but we’re hoping this will be the first of many.”

I cocked an eyebrow at him and he shrugged. She filled our water glasses and asked for our drink orders. Considering the drink menu read like a chemistry textbook rather than a list of things that the human body could consume, I was grateful Evan selected a red wine from the menu. I glanced over the options and noticed it was one of the higher end choices. The bottle cost more than my car payment.

“You do like red, right? As far as I remember?” he clarified after she disappeared across the rooftop. There was the fifteen dollar bottle I had brought to camp, our last supper of sorts. It would hardly be considered wine compared to what we were about to drink.

“I do, and wine is much simpler than half of these cocktails they have. Wine is wine.”

“Wine is wine indeed,” he looked over the menu. I watched him mouth the names of dishes as he read over them. “I already miss the nachos. I’ve gotten delivery from that Mexican place three times already, and I’ve only been here a week.”

Seven days. He’d been in my city, my city within a city, for seven days, and this was the first time we’d seen each other. He was nervous, made apparent by his bobbing knee. He also almost tipped over his glass of wine when taking it from the sommelier.

We made stilted small talk, forgetting how to converse in person as if I wasn’t crying on the phone with him less than a week ago. The formal restaurant and the stiffness of our nice clothing kept us buttoned up and proper. Every so often when I’d lean over to reach for my glass or readjust myself I’d catch Evan’s eyes wandering.

The view was easy to focus on whenever making eye contact with him became too much. I had grown apathetic to Boston, but seeing it lit up from a rooftop softened me a bit. There may not have been stars but there were thousands of twinkling lights across buildings, and I could see down into the public garden and the small silhouettes of couples wrapped up into one another as they hurried across.

There were five courses in the chef’s tasting menu that Evan had selected for us and we had just finished the second.

“I still feel so out of place here,” I slid the plate away. “I’m looking at all these forks and I don’t even know which one to stab myself with.”

“You don’t look out of place,” he leaned across the table and looked me in the eyes with that sweet sincerity. “And you want to use this fork right here.” He picked up the large fork closest to the plate and winked.

I swirled around the last bits of my wine collected in the curve of the glass and took in the view, “how long are you here?”

Evan leaned back into his seat. “Eight weeks.”

I counted out until the end date in my head. More days to savor. A deadline kicked further down the road. “Are we going to make this into a regular thing?” I asked.

His lips curled upward, “is that you saying you want it to be?”

I shrugged and took another sip, “maybe.”

“I’m going to be honest,” he said as he climbed into the car after he tipped the valet driver. “I just spent a dumb amount of money on that meal and I’m still starving. How are you feeling, do you want me to drop you off back at your place or…?”