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“Well then.”
“Is there always controversy? When you’re seeing someone?”
He leans back and gives me a smug look. “Usually.”
Aha. Sebastian is a guy who loves drama. But I love drama too. So maybe we’re perfect for each other. Must discuss this aspect with The Mouse, I think, making a mental note.
“So are the French onion soup and lamb chops good for you?” he asks as he gives our order to the waiter.
“Perfect,” I say, smiling at him over the rim of my martini.
And there’s the problem: I don’t want French onion soup. I’ve had onions and cheese my whole life. I wanted to try something exotic and sophisticated, like escargot. And now it’s too late. Why do I always do what Sebastian wants?
As I lift my glass, a woman with coiffed red hair, a red dress, and bare legs knocks into me, spilling half of my drink. “I’m sorry, sweetheart,” she says, slurring her words. She steps back, taking in what appears to be a romantic scene between me and Sebastian. “Young love,” she twitters, staggering away as I mop up the mess with my napkin.
“What was that about?”
“Some middle-aged drunk.” Sebastian shrugs.
“She can’t help being middle-aged, you know.”
“Yeah. But there’s nothing worse than a woman over a certain age who’s had too much to drink.”
“Where do you pick up these rules?”
“Come on, Carrie. Everyone knows that women are lousy drunks.”
“And men are better?”
“Why are we having this discussion?”
“I guess you think women are lousy drivers and scientists, too.”
“There are exceptions. Your friend, The Mouse.”
Excuse me?
Our onion soup arrives, the top bubbling with melted cheese. “Be careful,” he says. “It’s hot.”
I sigh, blowing on a spoonful of gooey cheese. “I still want to go to France someday.”
“I’ll take you there,” he says, just like that, cool as can be. “Maybe we could go this summer.”
He leans forward, suddenly aroused by the thought. “We’ll start in Paris. Then we’ll take the train to Bordeaux. That’s wine country. Then we’ll swing down to the South of France. Cannes, Saint-Tropez…”
I picture the Eiffel Tower. A stucco villa on a hill. Speedboats. Bikinis. Sebastian’s eyes, serious, soulful, staring into mine. “I love you, Carrie,” he whispers in my fantasy. “Will you marry me?”
I was still hoping to go to New York this summer, but if Sebastian wants to take me to France, I’m there.
“Hello?”
“Huh?” I look up and see a blond woman wearing a headband and a gummy smile.
“I had to ask. Where did you get that bag?”
“Do you mind?” Sebastian says pointedly, to the blonde. He plucks the bag off the table and puts it on the floor.
The woman walks away as Sebastian orders another round of drinks. But the mood is broken, and when our lamb chops come, we eat in silence.
