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“So, are you ready for dinner?” she asks.
“As long as it’s reasonable,” I say.
“Nonsense. My treat. What do you like to eat? Anything.”
“Anything?” I ask. “Ice cream!”
“For dinner?” She crosses her arms and arches one eyebrow and something about even that is sexy as fuck.
“Ice cream was the first thing that popped into my mind.”
“Then ice cream it is, but only if you eat a healthy meal first.” There it is again, that mock sternness that makes me tingle, but this time mixed with a hint of indulgence that warms my heart. She asks me how I feel about Suncatcher Grill.
“I’ve heard about that place. It’s expensive,” I say. “How about Steak and Shake?”
She laughs. “Steak and Shake?”
“You said I get to pick.”
She puts up her hands. “Okay. You got me. I did. Steak and Shake it is.”
“Fantastic,” I say, and mean it. My stomach is growling before I get to the truck. I’ve been so nervous about tonight that the only thing I’ve eaten all day is a pack of crackers. I get the feeling if I told Tandy, she’d scold me. I like that feeling.
It’s been years since I’ve ridden in a pickup. Tandy’s is large and clean with soft leather interior. A crystal hangs from the rearview mirror. It catches the light as it moves back and forth. The radio is set to an indie rock playlist. On the way to the restaurant, we talk about the horrific traffic in the city and how no one will ever do anything to fix it.
“You know I’d have taken you somewhere expensive,” Tandy reminds me once we’re at the restaurant and settling into our booth. The atmosphere is casual and reminiscent of a fifties-era diner. The fries and burgers are served in red baskets lined with white parchment paper.
“No, this is perfect. Thank you so much.” I remove the top of my chocolate milk shake and dipping a fry into the sweetness. Tandy frowns.
“What?” I ask.
“You’re a little brat, aren’t you?”
“A brat?” I swirl a second fry into the shake and pop the whole thing in my mouth. “How so?”
“Because that, young lady…” She points at the shake. “Is supposed to be dessert.”
Something in how she called me a brat and young lady makes my belly flutter. I wriggle in my seat, trying to ignore the pulse between my thighs. I can feel my panties getting damp.
“It’s the best way to eat fries,” I say with conviction. “Try it.”
“No, thanks.” She laughs and shakes her head.
“Chicken,” I say under my breath.
“Chicken, huh?” Tandy picks up a fry and reaches over to swirl it in my shake. I watch as she puts it to her mouth. Her expression is dubious, but then her eyes widen. “Jesus H. Christ. That’s good.”
“Told ya!” I say triumphantly.
“I should have gotten a shake,” she says regretfully.
“No, you’ll share mine.” I push it between us and for the next hour we stuff ourselves on fries dipped in sugary sweetness and overstuffed hamburgers. Our fingers brush as we dip our fries and each time I feel little buzz of pleasure in places that make it hard to stay focused.
We talk while we eat. I learn that Tandy grew up on a farm in the Midwest, spending summers with her artist grandmother – the one with the Victorian house. She came out to her parents when she was a graphic design student.
“I was going to school on the east coast, and I figured there was enough distance between us to break the news, but as it turns out they were surprisingly cool with it,” she says, and I feel a deep emptiness for having missed out on understanding parents.
I cherry-pick details from my own childhood, glossing over the trauma to emphasize the things that make it seem happy and normal. I tell her about the woods behind my house and how my parents left the road so I could go to school and make friends. This, of course, is a lie. They were forced to leave, but it sounds better the way I tell it.
