When I look up, Pat is watching, open-mouthed, his espresso eyes turning to a darker roast right in front of me. “You missed a bit,” he says, shifting toward me.
Oh, no. I’ve seen this before in the movies. It starts with You’ve got a little something right here, and the guy goes to wipe whipped cream or some other sexy food (it’s ALWAYS sexy food) from the corner of the heroine’s mouth. Then, BAM! It’s one of those kissing scenes with the swelling music and the heavy breathing.
I grab a napkin, practically scrubbing all my exposed skin from any hint of food. Those CSI guys and their little kit would find nothing on me.
Well. Nothing but napkin fibers.
“I’ve got it. See? Totally clean now. Like a newborn baby.” I make a face. “Actually, newborns aren’t very clean. They also don’t sleep more than two to three hours at a time, so that whole sleeping like a baby thing is some kind of conspiracy theory.”
Pat tilts his head, looking amused. “Did you think I was going to … lick your arm clean?”
Maybe. But it sounds ridiculous now that he’s said it out loud. Also, Pat shouldn’t be allowed to say the word lick ever again. It’s way too visceral, too sensual.
“I was just going to offer you my napkin,” he says. “The way you offered yours to me.”
“I don’t want to be your napkin buddy. I’ve got enough of those already.”
Pat just stares, blinking in confusion, because what even is a napkin buddy? And what does it mean if I have a lot of them? Fantastic. Now I’m the napkin hussy of Sheet Cake.
Pat coughs, and I think he’s hiding laughter behind his hand, because his shoulders are shaking. Whatever. Laugh away. See if I share napkins with you again.
I decide to save myself more embarrassing messes and eat my fajita from a plate with a fork, which is just wrong. But it will require no tongues and no napkins and no use of the word lick.
Of course, just as I think this, I drop a caramelized onion in my lap.
“About what I said,” Pat starts.
“We can pretend you didn’t say anything,” I tell him, stabbing a piece of beef with my fork. Perhaps a little more violently than necessary.
Pat sighs. “I know you don’t like accepting help, or even admitting you need it—”
I set my fork down and curl my hands into fists in my lap. “After all this time, you can waltz in and think you know me?”
My words are harsh, but my tone is calm and cucumbers-on-ice cool. I could be talking about mathematical equations. All my eye contact is reserved for my tortilla, which is the kind of date I like: it keeps its mouth shut.
“I’d like to think I do know you.”
“And I’d like to think I could pick the winning lotto numbers. Doesn’t mean I can.”
Pat frowns, and I realize he hasn’t touched anything on his plate, while I’ve blown through two fajitas. Albeit with a fork, but they end up in the same place. Is the man even going to eat? Or is he planning on letting his enchiladas get cold while running his mouth? That’s a waste, right there. In a show of protest, I pick up my fork and resume eating.
Pat clears his throat. “I loved you.”
I drop my fork. It falls somewhere under the table on the Saltillo tile, probably never to be seen again.
“You couldn’t have.”
“I did,” Pat says. “I did, and I realized this week I still do. I love you, Lindy.”
I feel like I’m standing on an iceberg cracking into pieces. Only, the iceberg is my heart, and it’s coming apart because it’s thawing. I’m left on some tiny block of ice, floating away and watching the devastation.
Thawing is good. Not having a frozen heart is good, I try to tell myself.
But no—it’s NOT good. Haven’t we all seen the commercial? The one with the ice caps melting and that poor mama polar bear trying to find a space to live with her cubs? Thawing is definitely bad, at least when it comes to Pat.
He loves me? The nerve of him! I refuse to accept his words.
“You are not allowed,” I tell him in the most reasonable tone possible.
His brows lift. “I’m not allowed to tell you I love you?”
“You’re not allowed to tell me, and you aren’t allowed to think you mean it.”
“I don’t think I mean it. I mean it.”
“Absolutely not. You can’t show up here, give me an apology one day, then say I love you a few days later. It’s unacceptable.”
We glare at each other across the table in what has to be one of the strangest arguments ever. Finally, Pat seems to concede, rubbing his jaw.
“What would be an acceptable number of days to wait, then?”
Not conceding. Apparently, he was just regrouping.
“None. No days.” I wave my hand and the server passing by thinks I’m signaling him to clear my plate. When he tries to take my now-cool fajita platter, I grab it with both hands, hunching my body over it protectively like Gollum. I think I might have even hissed.
What is wrong with me?
“Sorry.” The waiter mutters something else under his breath in Spanish that might be I’m sorry or maybe Don’t come between the woman and her fajitas.
I realize Chevy is watching me with wide eyes from across the restaurant. My ridiculous display is at least partly his fault. When I tell Winnie that her brother helped Pat contact me, maybe she’ll join me in exacting revenge. Chevy withers under my gaze and turns back to the bartender. I try to retain what tiny shred of dignity I have, uncurling my fingers from the platter and sitting up straight.
“You can have mine too if you want,” Pat says, pushing his plate toward me. “I mean, if you’re that hungry.”
I’m not hungry. I’m angry. I’m also having some kind of adrenaline spike, whether I want to or not, whether I believe him or not because Pat said he loves me. Even thinking it again threatens to overload my system. Inside my brain, red lights are flashing, and one of those blaring alarms sounds. I imagine men in white coats running around, waving their arms ineffectually. A total reset is imminent.
“You don’t want your enchiladas?” I ask, ignoring the complete pandemonium in my head.
Pat shakes his head slowly. “I want to marry you.”
And … there goes the reset. An MRI of my brain would show only a blank computer screen with a blinking cursor.