Light Up the Sky
Angel
and hands us each a menu, reciting the daily specials and taking our drink order. The prices on the drink menu blow my mind—fifteen dollars for a glass of carrot juice? No thanks. I order a flat water, no ice, and Damian asks for the same, to the obvious disappointment of our server, Maria.
“You don’t want something different? Wine or anything?” he asks, while studying his own menu.
“Water is fine. Everything else is too expensive.”
His breathy laugh makes his shoulders shake. “Don’t worry about that. Have something if you want. This is supposed to be an experience.” He waves his hand in front of him, gesturing to the space around us.
The décor is elaborate but not gaudy. Crystal chandeliers, a stunning floral mural running the length of the wall opposite the windows, gold tables with off-white upholstered chairs. It really is beautiful.
“I’m here for the company, not the overpriced alcohol.”
He doesn’t reply for a moment, appearing deep in thought. I don’t want to interrupt his thought process, so I continue perusing the menu. The entrées are expensive too. This is not a feasible option for the unemployed.
“Has anyone ever told you you’re amazing?” His random declaration catches me by surprise. His eyes bore into mine when I look up and it appears he surprised himself by saying that.
“I don’t think anyone ever has.” I laugh, fidgeting with my menu and pulling it open to block the blush creeping up my face. “Quite the opposite, actually.”
Maria places our waters on the immaculately set table and I sympathize with the wait staff for having to deal with tablecloths. Such a hassle. Though chances are, in a place like this, they have the benefit of busboys to clean the tables after their patrons leave. Something we never had at Harvest. Different tax brackets. Maria asks if we’re ready to order. Damian orders a charcuterie board for us to share, so I only order a wild mushroom soup in addition to that. The menu is too fancy for my taste. I don’t need the lineage of my dinner traced back seven generations. Like their bison is some sort of wild game royalty.
Once Maria is several feet away, Damian stares at me with concern etched on his face. “What do you mean, the opposite?”
Not ideal to dive into poor-me stories on our first official date, but this is the price of honesty. “Most people don’t like hearing the truth. It doesn’t matter if it’s my opinion or something I say for their benefit. It doesn’t matter if it’s a glaringly obvious indisputable truth. People want to hear what they want, and I disrupt that. As a result, not many people stick around for long.” I take a sip of my water, hoping the refreshing liquid will lower my body temperature. “You’ll see.”
“That’s their problem, not yours. My career has been based on spinning truth and telling people what they want to hear. In my industry, everything has to be calculated and analyzed. Perception is everything, so I find your truth refreshing.”
“For now, maybe.” I take a breath, wanting to change this conversation topic. “What is your industry? I just realized all the times we’ve spoken, we’ve talked about your job, but I never asked what it is.”
He seems hesitant to answer, which makes me twist in my seat, bracing myself for something horrific, like a human trafficker or mobster. I can imagine they’d thrive by spinning the truth and being calculated in their efforts.
“I’m in advertising. I prefer more of the product ad campaign creation to the management side where I am now, but the company needed someone to fill the spot, so I stepped in.”
Based on everything he’s told me until now, that makes perfect sense—including his offer to ask his contacts if they had work available. “I can see what you mean about it being a tough industry—that’s been part of my issue in pursuing graphic design.”
Maria brings our charcuterie board and two plates, so Damian and I put our conversation on hold to dig in. There’s a wide variety of options, from prosciutto to blackberries, leaving me conflicted over what to choose. I look up from the platter and see Damian watching me with a grin teasing at his lips.
“What?”
“I just find you fascinating.”
“Watching me conflicted over deli meats is fascinating? Oh, honey. You need to find some excitement in your life.” I chuckle, averting my eyes from his and popping a plump cherry tomato in my mouth.
“It’s nothing to do with the deli meats.” He smirks, grabbing a small slice of cheese and taking a bite. His eyes widen as he chews it, but not in delight. “That’s a strong cheese.” His expression morphs, as his nose scrunches and his forehead wrinkles.
As much as I try, I can’t stop a giggle from bubbling out. I cover my mouth with my hand, not wanting to spray tomato guts across the fancy restaurant. My amusement causes Damian to laugh, and there we are, like a couple of fools, giggling over smelly cheese.
“Hopefully the rest of it is better,” he says after taking a sip of water.
We pick at the food, commenting on each thing we try, sharing what we enjoy to get the other’s opinion, and warning each other away from more offensive cheeses. Our entrees arrive, and I dive into my mushroom soup that has an obnoxious balsamic foam overtop, but I stir it in and hope for the best. Damian stares down at his meal, which is about the size of your average hamburger, all piled together to create edible “art”. Looks like Genie would like it, but I don’t say that out loud.
“I wasn’t aware I’d need an engineering degree to dismantle my meal,” he says, causing us both to laugh again, drawing attention our way. He takes his first bite, twisting his face as he chews, then leans forward to whisper, “Do you think the chef would be offended if I put ketchup on this?”
I snort, then clap my hand over my mouth and nose, trying not to upset the others enjoying their overpriced “gourmet” food. Apparently, I have the palette of a toddler, because I would have preferred chicken nuggets and a milkshake.
Our main course isn’t any more appealing than the appetizer, but we choke down what we can. I mention Hannah and her dream to work in a restaurant like this, but claim she is far too talented to work somewhere else that turns out dog food. Conversation then lands back on the day I got fired, explaining why Hannah is now in the market for a new job.
“They walked out with you?”
“Sure did. Not just walked out. Practically set the place on fire as they did. Then we went out to a club later that night and I ran into the same guy. For a big city, it feels really small sometimes.”
Damian gapes at me, so I continue.
“He started to grind up against me—during a Christina song, nonetheless, tainting it for me for all of eternity, which is unforgivable—so I told him off. He said some things I hope he’ll never even think again because I kneed him in the jewels and got kicked out of the club.”
Silence.
Damian gawks at me a few seconds longer, then without another word, bursts into a fit of laughter. Other patrons are staring as I join in again, and soon we’re struggling to catch our breaths. I can’t stop picturing the look on the guy’s face when I played nutcracker, and I’m sure Damian is imagining it too.
Finally, he composes himself to look at me. “You really are amazing.” He grabs the napkin from his lap, tossing it over the remains of his food tower. “What do you say we take a walk along the waterfront? I can’t take another bite of this.”
My stomach is aching from the fits of giggles—and maybe a little from whatever I just ate that my digestive system is not accustomed to—but I smile and nod, not wanting to say good night yet.
As soon as I stand, I note my footwear. “Oh. I’m not really in walking shoes.”
Damian levels me with a smile reaching his captivating eyes, and tosses some cash on the table before he takes my hand. “I can piggyback you. Come on.”
“Oh, no. Let me pay for half. I insist.”
He stops walking, which gives me a chance to free my hand and dig through my clutch, searching for some money.
“Let me get it. Please? Besides, you already took care of our first meal.”
Heat rushes up my neck and face when I think back to that day at my house. I realize he’s bound to argue with me if I insist on paying, so I let it go. “Fine, but whatever we do next is on me.”
Again, he smirks, and my eyes widen as I understand the dual meaning of my words.
“Don’t get any ideas, Mr. Taylor.” I clarify and walk toward the elevator.
“Wouldn’t dream of it, Miss Blake.”