Gael nodded, trying not to be disappointed. He knew she wouldn’t appreciate the movie like he would, he’d known she wouldn’t dissect it like Sammy would, but he couldn’t help wishing she had something more to say.
(I watched as Gael proceeded to do what any good Romantic would do: He ignored his disappointment. Cara, in turn, being the Serial Monogamist she was, tamped down her frustration.) “Should we get something to eat?” he asked, changing the subject. “You like Spanky’s?”
“I love Spanky’s,” Cara said.
At least they had that in common, Gael thought. His relief at the notion was a little too great.
They parked behind Cosmic.
Gael checked his watch as they walked down the alleyway that bordered the dingy Mexican joint. Spanky’s was closing soon.
“Hey, if they won’t seat us this late,” he said. “There’s always nachos.”
“Yes,” Cara smiled. “We’ll always have nachos.”
He laughed. “You sound like Rick from Casablanca.”
“Huh?” she asked.
“Never mind.”
They crossed at the light, but a student on a bike breezed through the red. Instinctively, Gael reached out to stop Cara from walking forward.
(I cursed myself for not seeing the biker coming, for allowing them to have this sweet, movie-like moment.) “You have to be careful,” Gael said. “So many assholes on bikes.”
“Thanks,” Cara said, and then she cocked her head toward his. “You never know, some crazy girl might even hit you as she swerves away from a cute animal.”
Gael laughed. “You don’t do anything the normal way, do you?”
“Don’t I?” Cara slowed her gait, looked up at him.
He shook his head no. “It’s not a very regular way to make friends, running them down in the road.”
“No,” she said. “I guess it’s not.” She didn’t drop his gaze.
But he did, before anything else could happen, because it was October still.
“Come on, let’s see if Spanky’s will take us,” he said.
The restaurant was fairly empty. A few couples looked like they were finishing up their meals, plus a few people were at the bar, girls in their Friday-night heels and frat boys in polos that barely covered their beer bellies.
“Are you still seating people?” Gael asked the hostess.
“We sure are,” the girl said with a bit of a forced smile. “Come on.”
She seated them at the corner window, overlooking Franklin.
Gael shut the menu immediately. “No need to look,” he said. “This is my favorite restaurant.”
“I know,” Cara said matter-of-factly. “You told me the night I met you.”
Gael smiled. Maybe it hadn’t all been him, that first night, he thought. Maybe even before he’d kissed her, she’d felt something, too.
“You sure know how to make a guy feel special, Cara Thompson.”
And the words were ridiculous—she laughed and so did he. But the sentiment, at least, was real.
The upstairs corner table of Spanky’s was Gael’s favorite for a reason. A mass of windows looked out on the street below, peppered with students bustling—and occasionally stumbling—by. The upstairs was also perfectly in line with the swinging stoplights at the intersection of Franklin and Columbia, something Gael always loved to watch.
“Isn’t it crazy how huge traffic lights are when you see them up close?” Gael asked.
(I gave her a little nudge. Reminded her that in past relationships she hadn’t felt comfortable disagreeing with her boyfriend.) Cara stopped eating and dabbed at her mouth with a napkin. “They don’t really look all that big to me.”
Gael sighed. They did look big and he loved how it made him feel small. He had the tiniest thought: What would Sammy have said? He quickly pushed it away.
“You have a little something right here.” He motioned to the corner of his mouth.
Cara dabbed again with her napkin.
“Other side.”
She tried again.
“Lower.”
She pushed it at him. “Here, you do it.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Gael saw the light turn green, and he leaned across the table and dabbed at the bit of sauce just to the left of her bottom lip.
(Their dinner was quickly turning into a full-fledged rom-com. I had to stop it.) The light turned red, and he handed her the napkin again, leaning back in his chair.
Gael had ordered a steak sandwich, but despite his insistence that it was the best thing on the menu, Cara had chosen a pasta that she was picking at slowly.
“You don’t like it?”
She shrugged. “It’s a little bland.”
(I may have tricked the chef into forgetting all the seasoning. Small victories, amirite?) “I told you to get the steak sandwich,” Gael muttered under his breath.
“What?” Cara asked.
“Never mind,” he said.
Gael looked again at the traffic light and tried to gather his thoughts. If this were a movie (not a Wes Anderson movie, Gael thought, because Wes would find the whole idea very trite, but instead one of the movies that Sammy would probably like), the big giant traffic light staring them in the face as they ate their dinner would be a metaphor for their relationship. Like the game you used to play when you were a kid. Green light, go. Red light, stop.