Page 29 of Comfort Read

Sage’s eyes narrow, and he looks at Kit so hard and for so long that Kit’s half-expecting to hear that he has a huge booger hanging out of his nose, or a spider chilling in the center of his forehead.

Instead, Sage finally blows out a hard breath and mutters, “Right.” Settling back in his seat, he shakes his head and repeats, as if to himself, “Right.”

They don’t talk again until they reach the restaurant.

“Oh my God, we’re at Tinamous,” Kit says, his mouth dropping open, when they step out of the car. For the next several minutes, it seems to be all he can say. He repeats it to Sage as they walk inside the inviting, low-ceilinged space; he mumbles it to himself while Sage speaks to the hostess; he screams it with his eyes to the diners they pass as they’re led to their table. The whole restaurant is done in rich earth tones, warm browns and reds that Kit would find soothing in other circumstances.

When they’ve been seated, poured water, and told a server will be with them momentarily, Kit leans over and hisses, “Sage! Oh my God! We’re at Tinamous!”

“I’m aware.” Sage looks like he’s not sure if he should be amused or concerned. “I’m kind of a regular here, for one thing, and for another, you’ve mentioned it. A few times now.”

“But—but—it’s Tinamous,” Kit says, waving a helpless hand down at his Reading Is Sexy hoodie. “I’m not dressed for Tinamous! This place has a Michelin star. There’s a whole season of Famous Tables about it. I’ve seen it. Twice! And I read the head chef’s column in Hearth⁠—”

“I had no idea you were such a food guy,” Sage says, raising his eyebrows. “Kind of figured you weren’t, actually. I didn’t see any cookbooks at Sawyer’s.”

“You never went upstairs!” Kit says this too loudly; embarrassed, he drops his voice to a whisper and hisses, “There’s a whole room of them! Allison says I have a problem and they need to be quarantined!” Horrified to consider it, he adds, “Oh my God, do all the customers who don’t bother to go upstairs think we don’t sell cookbooks?”

A waitress approaches at this point; Sage looks relieved to get out of answering that question. After quickly checking with Kit, who nods his enthusiastic and overwhelmed permission, Sage orders for both of them, selecting cocktails and then requesting the tasting menu. Wearily, and sounding like he has very little hope of his request being met, he says, “Maybe don’t flag it as my table this time, what do you say? No special treatment? He knows I’m coming tonight, but he doesn’t have to⁠—”

“You always forget he can see you from here,” their waitress points out, nodding towards the back. When Kit turns, a short, heavy-set man with a cheerful face and a buzz cut grins at him and offers a jaunty wave. Reflexively, Kit smiles and waves back, and then freezes when he recognizes the man as Marcelo Navarro from that season of Famous Table with his hair cut off.

Sage groans as their waitress beams at him. “I know, I know, Sage. It’s terrible when people want to be nice to you.” She whisks their menus away, and then winks at Kit. “Nice to meet you, by the way. He doesn’t usually bring dates here—he must like you.”

“Bye, Farrah,” Sage grinds out.

She doesn’t seem bothered by his tone, sounding sparklingly bright at she says, “I’ll be right back with those drinks, then, gentlemen,” as she walks away.

When Kit turns back to Sage, he’s surprised to see Sage is not just blushing, but blushing deeply enough that Kit can’t miss it even in the cozily dim lighting of the restaurant. Why would Sage be blushing? It’s not as though Sage really likes him; this isn’t even a real date.

Is it?

“Ugh,” Sage mutters, before Kit can work up the nerve to ask. “There they are. I know technically this time we asked them to be here, but I still hate to see them turn up.”

Kit follows Sage’s eyeline out to the sidewalk in front of the restaurant, where a small clutch of paparazzi is taking pictures through the window. The back of his neck prickles uncomfortably, both at the flashbulbs and at the way the other diners are craning their necks to try and catch a glimpse of them.

It does, however, explain the blushing. Kit thanks his lucky stars he managed to keep his mouth shut even as he opens it to say, “Right. About that. What are we doing, exactly? Not that I don’t trust that there’s a plan here, but like… uh… what is it?”

“Frankie leaked that photo from the farm about twenty minutes ago,” Sage explains. “So it’ll make the rounds tonight, while those guys,” he nods, curtly, towards the window, “are negotiating sales fees on the pictures they’re taking now. Those will go live in the morning, so there should be a lot of attention on us as a couple at tomorrow’s awards show. Frankie’s theory is to get the story out there wide and fast—then all we have to do to convince people is avoid upsetting that first impression.”

“Makes sense,” Kit says, swallowing hard against a knot of nerves in his gut. He forces his gaze away from the window and the rubbernecking diners, and offers Sage a smile that he hopes looks eager to face the approaching future, as opposed to slightly queasy at the thought of it.

The drink helps. It’s the house margarita, all smoke and citrus, with a complex thread of spice running through it. Kit lets the relaxing heat of it sink into him, soften his sharp awareness of how bizarre this all is. Sage isn’t talking much, seeming to still be teetering on the edge of his unfortunate mood, but with the help of his dear friend alcohol, Kit decides that he, at least, is going to have a good time. He is at Tinamous. From his television screen. This is almost certainly his life’s one opportunity to eat at a place like this, and by the time the food starts arriving, Kit has committed to making the most of it.

And oh, what food! Dry-aged yellowtail aguachile! Blistered shishito peppers with maitake mushrooms! Wild shrimp with honey and bone marrow! Lamb so succulent Kit nearly weeps over it, drenched in a black garlic mole! Every bite is the most delicious thing Kit’s ever eaten; the meal as a whole is an edible religious experience.

Sage is very blasé about it, which Kit isn’t surprised by; after all, he did say he was a regular here. Eating doesn’t make him any more talkative, but he seems to thaw slightly as Kit exclaims over the dishes. His eyes warm briefly every time Kit lets out a satisfied “Mmm,” or gasp of delight, only hardening again when he glances out the window.

Still, in spite of both this and his commitment to enjoy himself, there’s only so long Kit can spend sitting across from a man radiating obvious misery. Finally, over an utterly transcendent dessert course comprised of spiced Mexican chocolate cake, sponge toffee, passionfruit, and tonka bean, he can contain it no longer. “Look—is it me? Are you regretting this whole thing? Am I driving you crazy? Because you can just tell me, if that’s it.”

Sage’s mouth drops slightly open. After a beat, he says, “No. Not at all. What made you think that?”

“Uhh,” Kit says, raising his eyebrows and gesturing at him, “The way you seem like you’d rather get a tooth pulled than be here right now, mostly?”

Another beat, in which Sage blinks wide blue eyes at him. Finally, he says, “I have to go to the bathroom. Excuse me.”

He’s up and gone before Kit can reply. Annoyed, Kit takes a bite of his dessert and promptly forgets to be annoyed: “Holy shit, that’s good.”

Kit looks up to see Marcelo sliding into the seat across from him. His eyes sparkling, he says, “Thanks. Not that I made that particular one or anything, but it was my idea. I’m⁠—”