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By the time we’re done shopping and back out on the sidewalk, it’s half past noon. I catch Jason checking my blood sugar levels on his phone. I do feel a bit shaky and clammy, which means my sugar is low.
“Lunch time,” Jason says as he tucks his phone back into his pocket. “What sounds good?”
“How about Moroccan? I know a great place not far from here. Ian’s taken me there many times. We’ll pass it on our way back to your apartment building.”
He motions for me to proceed. “Lead the way.”
We walk about five blocks to the restaurant. Jason sticks close to me when the pedestrian traffic is heavy. When a large crowd comes barreling toward us, he pulls me out of their path and tucks me beneath his arm.
“Here it is,” I say, stopping in front of an old brick townhouse that’s been converted to a restaurant.
We walk up the front steps, and Jason opens the door for me. I smile as I step inside and smell the delicious aroma of roasted meat and veggies.
“Just the two of you?” asks the smiling young man standing behind the host’s podium. He’s tall, with pale skin, curly red hair, and freckles.
“Yes, two,” Jason says. “Thanks”
The host eyes me curiously, practically staring. “Excuse me, but are you Layla Alexander?”
Ugly. He thinks you’re ugly.
I guess the baseball cap didn’t help as much as I thought it would.
The guy grins. “I’ve never seen you in public before. On social media, yeah, all the time. But never in public.” He dips down to see me better beneath the ball cap. “I hate to ask, but would you mind if I take a picture with you? My friends will never believe this.”
Jason steps in front of me. “How about getting us a table? D’you mind?”
The host winces apologetically as he grabs two menus and heads into the dining room. “Sorry. Right this way.”
The dining room is small and cozy, with just a dozen tables. There are potted trees—probably fake—throughout the room. Moroccan paintings and textiles hang on the walls, and brightly-colored rugs adorn the old oak floors. Over each table hangs an antique light fixture.
The host lays our menus on the table. “Someone will be right out to take your orders.”
Jason pulls out a chair for me, and I sit. Then he sits across from me. “The ambiance is amazing,” he says as he looks around the room.
“Ian and I like to come here. He likes to tease me and say I’m probably a half-Moroccan princess.”
Jason laughs as he opens his menu.
“What’s so funny?” I ask.
“It’s just that, when I first saw you, I thought you looked like a Disney princess, so I don’t think Ian was that far off.”
Now it’s my turn to laugh.
You idiot. He’s laughingatyou.
He is not. Stop it.
You are so gullible.
By the time our server comes to our table—a tall, dark-haired young man—Jason has decided what he wants. I already know what I want. After placing our food orders, we drink mango-flavored sparkling water while we wait for our food.
I’m amazed at how easy it is to talk to him. We ramble from one topic of conversation to another without any awkward pauses.
He asks me about school, about my major. “So, why psychology?”
“I guess because I’m fascinated by the complexities of the human brain. I want to better understand it, so maybe I can better understand why I hearher.” I tap on my skull. “Maybe someday I will.”
