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“They treated you like you were garbage,” he says plainly.
I shake my head. “They treated me like I was powerless, because I was.”
“To them,” he highlights. “Never put yourself in a position where you let people think you’re powerless again, Winnifred. They’ll always take advantage of it. I know I did.”
I know he is talking about our exchange in Italy, and my stomach turns.
He stands up and saunters toward the door. “Let’s grab something to eat. All this talk about infidelity and betrayal’s making me hungry.”
I glance down at my phone. “It’s one in the morning.”
“Yes, it is, and neither of us had dinner. I know because I’ve had my eyes on you for the last six hours.”
This foreign feeling of flourishing under unexpected sunlight crashes into me. He did? He looked? He noticed? It is tempting to pretend he likes me, even if I know it can’t be true.
“I don’t think we have the same culinary preferences.” I try to dodge the offer.
“You’d be surprised.”
“Where do you want to go?” I’m on my feet before I know it, following him.
He waves me off. “You’ll see.”
Ten minutes later, we’re in a hole-in-the-wall type of restaurant, tucked in the back of a Cuban deli that’s open throughout the night. We pass through the actual bodega before descending the few steps into its basement, where there are a handful of round tables, loud Cuban music, and waiters and diners laughing and talking joyously. A thick cloud of cigar smoke hangs over the room. I’m surprised that Arsène frequents this place. It’s not gold plated and doesn’t have any Michelin stars.
We’re seen to a small table. I order the calamari in garlic sauce, and he orders the lechón asado. The food arrives in record time, served on plates you’d find in your auntie’s kitchen. They don’t even match, which I love. For the first time in months—maybe years—I feel at ease in Manhattan. This place feels like somebody’s home. It lacks the glamour and pretense that’s usually stapled to anything in this zip code.
“I like this place,” I admit.
“Figured.” He is concentrating deeply on his food.
I should be tired, but I’m not. Maybe it’s the adrenaline from the show, or seeing Ma, or maybe it’s going to Grace’s apartment and coming face to face with Paul’s wrongdoings. No matter what it is, I’m actually wide awake as we tuck into our food.
“So have you been going out with people regularly since Grace . . . ?” I broach the subject while munching on a gummy piece of calamari.
“I haven’t dated since Grace passed. Nor do I wish to. I’ve never been a relationship kind of guy.”
“You’ve been engaged.” I spear another calamari with my fork, pointing it at him.
“Grace was a once-in-a-lifetime woman.” He takes a generous bite of his asado. “I only have one lifetime; therefore, I don’t expect to find someone like her.”
“So you never plan on moving on?” I ask, oddly sad, even though I shouldn’t care for him.
“Do you?” He looks up from his plate.
Biting down on my lip, I think about it. “I hope so. Logic dictates that I will, at some point. And to be honest, ever since I found out he really did cheat on me . . .”
“It should make things easier,” Arsène completes. “Emphasis on the should part.”
He gets it. Just because they didn’t deserve our love doesn’t mean that we can stop loving them.
“So what was Gwen all about?” I persist.
He waves a dismissive hand. “Gwen’s an old friend. We sometimes do each other solids. I didn’t want to be bothered by the Calypso Hall crew tonight, and she was a buffer between the little people and me.”
The way he says it, little people, like he is no mortal, reminds me that despite his surprising tenderness toward me, he is still a dangerous creature.
I lean back in my seat. “And look at you now. Sitting here with a southern bumpkin, no less. Oh, how the mighty have fallen.”
“We both know why we’re here. No pretense. No illusions about who we are and what we want.” He finishes his last bite, and before he even swallows, a waiter jumps between us, handing him a hand-rolled cigar and lighting it for him.
“Want one?” Arsène points the lit cigar in my direction.
I shake my head. As if reading my mind, Arsène makes a face.
“C’mon, Bumpkin. Give it a try. Breaking the mold should be at the top of our priorities right now.”
The waiter lingers, staring down at me with open curiosity. I decide to comply, mainly because I’ve never smoked a cigar, and because Arsène, for all his many, glaring faults, is shaping up to be an enjoyable foe.
I take one, allowing the waiter to light it up for me.
“Don’t inhale,” Arsène instructs, his eyes studying me attentively. “You absorb the nicotine through the mucus membrane in your mouth.”
