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We’re at a brick oven place in Oakland that’s close to campus where she meets Grace for dinner once or twice a month. She’s been raving about their clam oreganata pie, which sounds awful, but she’s convinced me that I need to try it.
The clientele is a mix of students, professors from Carnegie Mellon and Pitt, and young professionals.
My eyes keep drifting over to the corner where there’s a table of six people who are obviously students, three guys and three girls.
“Remember when you asked me if I thought people were difficult to read?” I look back to her and watch as she takes a sip of her wine. “You specifically asked me if I thought it was hard to read men.”
“Hmm?”
“You, Leo Hale, are very easy to read at the moment.”
I swirl my wine around my glass, stalling before I take a sip. “How’s that?”
“You keep looking at that group over there. They’re around my age, give or take a year, and you’re telling yourself that I should be with one ofthoseguys instead of you. Am I right?”
“None of the guys on campus turn your head?”
“I’ve been asked out on a few dates—”
“I’m sure it’s been more than a few.”
She brushes my comment off and says, “It’s hard to explain, but the things that seem important to most people my age just aren’t important to me. I don’t want to deal with drunk guys at frat socials and I don’t want to drink my face off before football games at the tailgate parties. Maybe if I came here at eighteen as a naïve freshman things would be different, but that’s not how my life has played out.”
I think on that as the server comes over with our pie and Skylar slides a slice onto a plate for me and then does the same for herself.
She blows on the piping hot slice and then looks up to me. “You’re awful quiet over there, so I’ll answer that question you’re not asking me. I won’t look back on this time in my life and regret it.”
“You can’t guarantee that.”
“You’re right, there are no guarantees.” She shakes her head. “I can’t believe I’m about to use a gambling term here, but Leo, I’d bet the farm on this…On us.”
And now I’m smiling because I can’t help it. “And what’s the over-under on me liking this pizza? It smells like garlic and ass.”
She leans in and lowers her voice. “You smell like ass, you fool. And if you don’t like this pizza then there’s simply no hope for you.” Biting into her slice, she lets out an orgasmic moan, drawing the attention of two guys sitting at a nearby table.
“Oh, you’re gonna get it, Skylar.”
She tips her head to the side, teasing me. “Promises, promises.”
I take a bite of my pizza, and while I may not feel quite the same way about it that Skylar does, I have to admit that it’s better than decent.
I nod. “It’s better than I expected.”
“Right?” She takes another bite and then says, “It’s like the best of both worlds…Garlic bread and yummy baked clams.”
“There’s a place in New York that has the best baked clams. Not that I’m an aficionado like you are,” I tease, “but it’s been years and I still remember them.”
“How many times have you been there?”
I shake my head as I actually try to come up with a number. “I don’t even know…So many times that I couldn’t say.”
“Do you remember the name of the restaurant? I’ll put it on my list for when I go back.”
“It was after a long day of bar hopping around the Village. Thompson Street, maybe off Bleeker? I don’t remember the name.”
“I tried baked clams for the first time in New York. We ate at an Italian restaurant in the Theater District that you’d probably consider a tourist trap because you’re a snob—”
“Am not!”
