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James clears his throat and I realize he’d stopped speaking a couple of minutes ago.
“Thank you, James,” I say. “Just give us a couple of minutes, okay?”
He smiles, assures us that there’s no hurry and that he’ll send over our waiter and the sommelier. The waiter arrives with menus, the wine guy with the wine list.
I look at Bailey. “Any idea what you’d like for dinner?” I ask, before I choose a wine.
She blinks. “I don’t…Why don’t you order for me, Matthew?”
I don’t think a woman’s ever asked me to do that before. It gives me a good feeling. Not that I think we should go back to the days when men ordered for their women, but there’s something special about having that kind of trust put in your hands.
And, hell, I’m making ten times more out of this than it deserves.
It’s probably just because this is a good first step. I mean, we agreed that we have to get comfortable with each other in public. Couples who are, well, couples behave differently than men and women who are just friends or who work together, or even couples that are dating.
In fact, we need to develop a vibe, something that hints at depth and—please let me not hyperventilate—possible permanency.
I’ve never been in that type of relationship, but I know that’s the only thing that will mean anything to Violet the Vile and, more to the point, it’s what will make Bailey’s mother a believer. Bailey and I will know we’re breaking up after the wedding, but nobody else will.
Well, we won’t be breaking up.
I mean, there won’t actually be anything to break up…
Fuck.
We just need to pull this off, and that means behaving a certain way. That I haven’t participated in what people call a relationship doesn’t mean I’m not observant.
I’ve noticed how people act.
So I smile, close the menu and tell the waiter we’ll have the veal and—
“Not veal,” Bailey says quickly. “I don’t eat veal. Do you know what veal really is? How they raise it? What they—”
“No veal,” I say. “We’ll have the salmon. And—”
“As long as it isn’t farmed. Farming is such a nice-sounding word, but the truth is that—”
Bailey falls silent. She’s looking at the waiter. The waiter and I both look at her. Color rises in her cheeks, but her voice is strong.
“…the truth is that they’re raised in confinement. And they’re fed chemicals. And—”
“What would you prefer?” I ask.
She does it again. The teeth. The bottom lip. Is she determined to drive me crazy?
“Anything,” she says blithely. “Your choice.”
Oh-kay.
I think of the stuff we ate last night. Lasagna. Pizza. Pad Thai. Nachos. So she’s not a vegan or a vegetarian, she’s just, what, environmentally aware, if that’s the current term, and I think it is.
I look at the menu again. I think back to the specials James mentioned. Something about a porterhouse for two. That seems safe enough…No. I’m pretty sure the place serves Kobe beef and a little voice in my head whispers that ranchers or whatever you call them who raise Kobe cattle give the animals massages to make sure the meat will be tender when they’re, uh, when they’re, uh, harvested…
Jesus Christ. No more Kobe beef for me. And, man, I am lost here.
“We have a lovely Eggplant Parmigiana,” the waiter says into the yawning silence.
Eggplant. Purple on the outside. Green on the inside. No food should be purple, and only lettuce should be green.
