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“You'd be surprised,” I tell her. “But you also seem to forget that I know how you grew up. You probably those super posh, elitist as hell places just as well as me.”
“Touché,” she relents. “Asshole.”
Her laughter is a beautifully melodic sound. I haven't heard it enough since we got back from Portland – that's something I need to remedy. The simple sound of her laughter makes me happy in ways I don't quite understand. But then, I don't think I need to understand something just to enjoy it, either.
“So? Where are we going?”
“The place is calledEl Zapato Rojo,” she says.
“The red shoe?” I chuckle. “You're actually taking me to a place to eat called the red shoe?”
“You told me to name my favorite place,” she replies with a shrug.
I give her a grin. “Fair enough. I did.”
I tell the driver the name of the restaurant and he looks it up on the GPS before heading in that direction.
“So, what is it about this place?” I ask, leaning back in my seat.
“Aside from it being the most amazing Mexican food you're going to find north of the border, the people there are so kind and down to earth,” she says, a smile touching her lips. “It's family-owned and they are such wonderful people. They really make you feel like one of the family.”
“You had me at amazing Mexican food.”
She laughs. “I'll warn you now, though, it's a bit of a hole in the wall,” she goes on. “My dad introduced me to the place when I was about – seven, I think. Been eating there ever since.”
At the mention of her father, a shadow of her grief passes over her face the way a cloud crosses the face of the sun, but disappears quickly, allowing that bright light to shine through again.
“You trying to say I’ll think I'm too good for this place?” I ask, feigning offense.
“You think you're too good for most places,” she fires back.
I shrug. “That's only because I am. They should probably pay me for walking through their doors and gracing their establishment with my presence.”
Emily rolls her eyes and I laugh – though, I don't think she was entirely joking, or think that I was kidding either. I look at her closely, really scrutinizing her eyes, searching for her tell as I ask the next question.
“Do you really think I believe I'm too good for some places? Or people?”
Emily shrugs. “I don't think you do it intentionally. I think it's more a function of how you grew up,” she offers. “But yeah, sometimes you can be a little bit – arrogant. Kind of above everything and everybody. You've been that way since I've known you, so I'm pretty sure it's like second nature to you.”
Clearly, I don’t need to search too hard for her tells. Not when she drops a truth bomb like that on me.
“Wow,” I reply. “Tell me what you really think.”
“You really don't want me to do that.”
Although there's a smile on her face, I can't quite tell if she's joking or not. Is there more she's not saying? More she's holding back for fear of hurting my feelings? Ordinarily, I would scoff at the idea that somebody thinks they have enough clout that their opinion of me matters. That if they say something like Emily just said, that it'll hurt my feelings. Truth is, I really don't give a damn what other people think about me. Not one iota.
However, hearing Emily say something like that hits me like a blindside tackle. I actually feel a sharp stab of pain in the heart when those words pass her lips. It's then I realize just how much Emily's opinion of me matters. On some level, I've always known that I care about what she thinks, but until I heard her say something kind of – harsh – I had no idea just how deep it went. How deep it still goes.
It removes any and all doubt from my mind. Emily Hall has a tighter, closer hold on me than I ever realized before now. Which is scary, dangerous, and somehow – exciting, in a strange way.
“Is that the way you see me?” I ask. “I mean, really see me?”
A soft smile touches her lips as she looks me in the eye. “I didn't mean that to sound as harsh as it came out.”
Before I can press her on it, the car comes to a stop and I glance through the window. We're here. Emily won't meet my eyes, the expression on her face clearly suggesting she's afraid she said too much already. The driver opens the door, and she practically flies out of the back seat. Chuckling to myself, I slide out and join her on the sidewalk.
“This is it,” she says, still not looking me in the eye.
