A strange sense of almost not knowing what to say, when we’d always had plenty to talk about. When I opened my door to get out of the car—a habit that Oscar was slowly breaking me of—he made sure to get there before I got out, but his usual head shake and “Woman” had an edge of frustration, rather than teasing.
Dinner was quiet, and increasingly awkward. I took him to one of my favorite spots, a little French bistro that I typically reserved for special occasions. When the ma?tre d’ took my coat, beating Oscar to it, Oscar rolled his eyes. When the same man pulled out my chair before Oscar could, Oscar may have growled. And when the manager came over to greet me, dropping kisses on both cheeks and saying how long it had been since I’d been by and how much he’d missed me, Oscar quietly steamed in his chair.
Once given the menu, however, he no longer steamed quietly.
“What the fuck kind of food is this?” he asked, his voice loud enough to make the people at the nearest table look over in alarm.
“It’s French,” I replied, my voice even and cool, and quiet. “Country French, specializing in Proven?al cuisine.”
“I don’t know what any of this is,” he replied, arching his eyebrows as he read through it. “It’s all in French; how is anyone supposed to know what they’re eating?”
“I felt like that the first time I came to a French restaurant, too,” I agreed, smiling a little to show him I was on his side. “My mother taught me a few French words so I could figure out a few things on any menu. Once when we were in Paris, I thought I was ordering chicken, but I got—”
“When we were in Paris,” he muttered, closing his menu and setting it back down again.
Now I was the one who had the raised eyebrows, unaccustomed to being interrupted, especially so rudely. But before I could say anything, our waiter appeared, looking at us expectantly. I quickly scanned the menu.
“I’ll have the blanquette de veau, with a glass of the Chateau de Chantegrive.”
“Certainement, bon choix,” he replied, looking at Oscar now for his selection.
Still reeling from his rude comment, I let him order on his own, not wanting to offer any assistance. As it turned out, he didn’t need it.
“Cheeseburger. Fries. Bud Light.” He glared up at the waiter as if daring him to challenge his obviously-trying-to-be-difficult order.
To his credit, the waiter’s eyes merely widened slightly, then he nodded his head. “Certainement.”
Oscar’s eyes now met mine across the table—challenging me next?
“I’m sure it’ll be delicious,” I said, my tone icy.
“I’m surprised he took the order. I was expecting a fight,” he said, smirking a little.
“The service here is impeccable. No one would ever argue with a customer.” I sighed, placing my napkin on my lap. “But if it’s a fight you’re wanting . . .”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Oh please, you’re spoiling for a fight.” I leaned across the table, my voice a low whisper. “What the hell is your problem? Is this because of the Brannigan’s thing?”
He just pointed at the waiter who had brought our drinks. He set them down quickly, obviously sensing the tension at the table.
Once he walked away, I leaned in. “Well?”
“Well, what?”
“Jesus, you’re so stubborn. It is about Brannigan’s, isn’t it? I know you didn’t ask me for help, but I—”
“I didn’t ask you for anything,” he said, cutting me off. Then he drained half of his beer in one draft and looked at me, daring me to say something.
I wasn’t playing this game. No way.
I smiled sweetly, ending the trajectory of the conversation. “So, Roxie told me that Polly ate so much of her Halloween candy the other night they’ve had to hide it and dole it out so she can’t OD on it again. Isn’t that funny?”
I was determined to save this night . . .
Stepping out of the car in front of Gallery O, I saw the usual photographers, movers and shakers in the art world, simpering debutantes with their equally simpering hedge fund manager boyfriends, blue-blooded matronly art patrons paired off with good-looking young hipsters, society hangers-on, and, in the middle of it all, actual artists.
I heard a sigh behind me, and when I turned to see Oscar, he was looking at the entire scene disapprovingly.
“You ready?” I asked, looping my arm through his as he came to stand next to me.
He grimaced, then forced a smile. “Sure thing.”
“You sure?”
“I love it when people ask me the same question twice,” he replied, looking like a man about to walk into the dentist’s office for a root canal.
I dug my nails into his arm as we walked past the photographers, here to snap a few shots for Page Six. “Play nice, please.”
“Oh, you want me to play?” he asked, a devious grin now making its way across his face. “Okay, let’s play.”
I saw my mother coming through the crowd, smiling and nodding and shaking hands, and I squashed every single thing I wanted to say: that I wanted to wipe that smug grin off his face, ask him what the hell was the matter, why was he being such an ass, and where was this all coming from?
I squashed, I centered, I smiled.