by Roxy Reid
Annabeth’s is lit with a warm golden glow. I hesitate on the steps outside. Inside, it’s filled with finely dressed people laughing and talking.
I’m pretty sure I beat Wade here. I should go in, ask for a table.
But I can’t make myself go in. Whenever my family went to places like this as a kid, I inevitably got in trouble, no matter what age I was. There’s a reason a career centered in dive bars seemed like a step up for me.
And I’m suddenly worried. What if this whole turning-over-a-new-leaf thing is just going back into my parent’s world? What if it’s just exchanging one set of ill-fitting shoes for another?
I turn back to the street, not sure if I’m looking for Wade or for a reason to leave.
And that’s when I see him. He’s parked a few cars down, just close enough that I can see him start to get out of the car, duck back in, fix his hair in the rearview mirror, then get out of the car and shake his shoulders out. He reminds me of a football player stepping out onto the field.
Something about it tugs at my heartstrings. Maybe I’m not the only one who feels nervous, out of place.
But just like that athlete he reminded me of, once Wade’s on the field (or in this case, the sidewalk), he moves with a single minded determination, and as he comes up the steps to me, the red vested valet standing a few feet away from me lets out an appreciative whistle.
“I’d park his car,” she says under her breath, and I crack up laughing.
Wade greets me with an easy grin. “What’s so funny?”
“Nothing,” I say, because the valet is already blushing and I’m not evil. “Shall we go in?”
“Ladies first,” he says, and with Wade at my back, I forget to be nervous as I step into Annabeth’s draped and gilded elegance.
The maître d’ starts to tell us there will be a bit of a wait, until their coworker recognizes Wade, and we’re whisked to a cozy booth in the back corner overlooking the whole restaurant.
“I suppose you do have your uses,” I drawl, and Wade kicks me under the table as our waiter frowns in confusion.
“What’s your wine menu look like tonight?” Wade asks. “We’re celebrating.”
The waiter immediately perks up. “Oh, well in that case you simply must have the 2005—”
“I won’t be having anything,” I interrupt before he can launch into the spiel.
“You sure? My treat,” Wade says, and I inwardly wince.
Shoot. Now he thinks I’m cheap.
Which, I am, at the moment. But that’s not why I’m saying no.
“I’m sure,” I say flashing my biggest smile. “I just meant, don’t worry about sharing, so get whatever you want.”
Wade looks at me like he can tell something’s up, and for a second I’m worried he’s going to press it. But he just orders one glass of whiskey, neat, and the waiter beats a hasty retreat.
“Is there something you want to tell me?” Wade asks, and I feel myself bristling.
Why do people always need a reason why you’re not drinking? Why can’t they ever just make it easy?
I take a deep breath. It’s not Wade’s fault I’ve answered some version of this question a million times before. And it’s not his fault that answering it never gets any easier.
“It’s perfectly normal to not feel like drinking,” I say.
“That’s not what I’m talking about. You gave me your toothpaste smile.”
“What?” I ask.
Wade mimes a super wide grin. “You do it when you don’t want someone to figure out what you’re really thinking.”
“I do not!”
Wade raises his eyebrows, and I flash him my pageant smile to shut him up, before I realize what I’m doing.
Damn him, he’s right. No one else has ever noticed I do that before. Not my friends. Not my boyfriends. Not even my family.
The waiter returns with Wade’s whiskey, and he takes a sip. “I’m not saying you have to tell me what you’re thinking. It’s fine if you don’t want to. I was just asking if you wanted to talk about it.”
And the thing is, I can tell he means it. Every line of his body is relaxed. He really doesn’t care.
Oh, what the hell. I’d have to tell him at some point anyway. Frankly, I’m surprised Duke hasn’t told him.
It’s because Duke’s ashamed of you, an old, bitter voice says inside of me, but I ignore it.
No, I correct the voice. It’s because Duke respects my privacy.
I take a deep breath, and Wade waits expectantly.
“I’m an alcoholic. It’s been three years since I had a drink. I could probably have one glass of wine without a relapse. Wine was never my problem. But it would be really stressful. The possibility of a relapse, even a remote one …” I shake my head. “It’s just not how I celebrate anymore.”
“Christ,” Wade says.
I wait for the disgust to roll in, or the pity, or the judgement, or the intrusive questions.
Instead he just says. “Wow. Three years. Good for you. I always knew you were strong.”
He lifts his whiskey in a toast, then realizes what he’s doing.
“Jesus. I’m sorry. Do you need me to get rid of this?” He’s already craning his neck for a waiter to pass his drink off to, when I stop him.
“It’s fine. I can be around alcohol. I was a professional musician playing bars for those three years. I just can’t drink myself. And being around drunk people is …”
“Not fun,” he guesses.
“Cognitively dissonant. Being sober around drunk people, more nights than not, for three years is …” I scrunch my nose and wiggle my fingers, trying to figure out how to express it. “It’s like trying to have a church service in a strip club. It’s doable. Some people might even thrive on that kind of challenge. But I just found it sad. And exhausting.”
He takes my hand and squeezes. “Thanks for telling me. And let me know if you ever need anything. We don’t have alcohol at work, except for the Christmas party—” he cuts himself off. “Well. I guess that doesn’t matter. You’ll be long gone by then. Still, let me know if you need anything.”
“I will,” I say, even though I absolutely won’t.
He half smiles, like he knows what I’m thinking.
But he doesn’t call me on my bullshit. Instead, he releases my hand and passes me a menu. “Ok, Ms. Drum Teacher. Pick your celebratory food. I’m thinking crab cakes to start, but I’m open to suggestions.”
“How do you feel about bacon?” I ask.
“Yes and always,” Wade answers with so much zeal, I laugh.
And just like that, it’s easy again. Wade makes everything easy. We place our order (enough food for three people) and move seamlessly into a conversation about our favorite places we’ve traveled.
I used to think that kind of easiness was just how some people were, but now that I’m looking for it, I notice the way he watches my reactions, steers the conversation to other waters when I seem uncomfortable, subtly nudges his whiskey farther out of my direct line of sight, and doesn’t take another sip until our food arrives, and my treat’s here too.
He doesn’t need to do any of that, of course. I’m strong. And if another man did that, I’d probably get annoyed, accuse him of thinking I’m fragile, breakable, in need of protection.
But his first words were wow, I always knew you were strong. When I blindsided him with my jagged, ugly scar, that was his first reaction.
He’s not making things easy because he thinks I need easy. He’s doing it because sometimes, easy just feels good. So I let myself sink into the sensation. Of good food, of being taken care of, of flickering candlelight, and a kind, genius, handsome man who wants to take care of my happiness for a night.
It’s a novel sensation. Like sinking into a hot bath, if hot baths could give you butterflies and make you very aware of your hips and your breasts and the fact that those places haven’t been touched in a very long time.
In fact, it feels s
o good, I’m a little wary.
I know how easy it is to lean too hard and fast on something that makes you feel good.
“So why did you move St. George Enterprises to North Carolina?” I ask, trying to get us back to normal work topics.
“I mean, there was the Home Sweet Home connection, obviously,” Wade says, sawing another piece off his steak. “And I wanted to be closer to my mom.”
“You could have moved her out to California,” I say.
Wade laughs. “Have you met my mom? No. She fought for her patch of the world, tooth and nail, and she will not be giving it up for anything. Certainly not because her son happened to pick a career in tech.”
I grin. “Fair.” I take another bite of my mushroom stuffed ravioli in herbed brown butter sauce, and give a little moan. After a month of hot dogs, cereal, and peanut butter and jelly, this food is like dying and going to heaven.
When I open my eyes, Wade’s watching my face, his eyes dark, and my stomach tightens. Not a date, I remind myself. Not a date, not a date, not a date.
“But if you miss her, you could just fly out when you felt like it. That’s what billionaires do, right?” I ask, trying to get the conversation back on track.
I’m not sure why I’m pushing this particular track, except that I want to know if Wade’s here for real, or if he’ll be off chasing the next business opportunity that presents itself. I’ve had ten years of transitory friendships, intense and wonderful in the way of strangers thrown together who find they can talk until dawn, and I wouldn’t give up any of them—well, maybe one or two—but it gets lonely after a while.
And the more we talk, the more I think Wade and I could be friends. Real friends. Especially once I’m no longer working for him. But I don’t want to get my hopes up if he’s just leaving again. For friendship or … anything else.
Wade tilts his head, like he’s trying to figure me out. “No one else has asked me that.”
That shouldn’t give me a thrill, but it does. The idea of being the only one who knows this one thing about Wade St. George. I take a sip of my water, hoping he’ll continue.
And he does.
“I guess it’s easier to talk about business and my mom than it is to say I didn’t really like California. It was exhilarating for a while, and some of my best friends are people I met there. But it never felt like home. Maybe because I already had one.” Wade rolls his eyes. “Is that lame?”
No. It’s wonderful. But instead I say, “Actually, I met a lot of people on tour who felt the same way. There’s something about home, once you find it.”
“What about you?” he asks. “Do you think you’ll stay here, if you like the new job?”
It might be my imagination, but it feels like he goes very still waiting for my answer.
“I don’t know,” I answer truthfully. “I definitely want somewhere like here. Laid back. Good food. Room to breathe. I want to put down roots. But I don’t want to spend my whole life feeling like I stick out like a sore thumb.”
He nods seriously, like this is helpful information. “And what would it take to make you feel like you fit in?”
Someone to come home to. Someone to laugh with when my hair scandalizes a coworker, or a parent pulls a kid from my class because I’m too opinionated. The answer pops into my head so quickly and so fully formed, I’m caught off guard.
I thought I was happy on my own. Starting over is hard enough. Adding dating into the mix …
But if dating was anything like this? If there was someone out there who made me feel as good as Wade does?
Wade’s staring at me, waiting for my answer. But I can’t just say a boyfriend.
How pathetically unoriginal.
“I guess having a few close friends I could lean on, chill with, celebrate with. That kind of thing.”
His smile is crooked, knowing, and I realize I’ve just described what he and I are.
Wade lifts his water glass. “To good friends you can celebrate with.”
We clink water glasses, and as I look in his dark brown eyes, I feel warm all over. Like maybe I’m starting over in more ways than one.
When I lower my glass, Wade’s grinning.
“What?”
“You’ve got some sauce on your lip.”
I lick my lip, and watch Wade’s eyes darken in a way that shouldn’t thrill me but absolutely does. “Did I get it?”
“No, it’s your bottom lip. Here, let me—” He reaches across the table, and as his thumb presses firmly into the softness of my lip, I hear the click of the camera shutter.
I ignore it, assuming someone near us is just taking a group photo, but Wade freezes. And then he turns to the sound, scowling and broad, like it’s a threat.
“Wade, it’s fine …” but the words die in my throat as I realize someone is taking a photo of us. A woman with thick red glasses and wiry red hair who looks oddly familiar, until I place her.
Judy Blandena. Editor of our student newspaper. And I’m guessing, by the hungry look in her eye, still a reporter on the hunt for the scoop.
I’m no scoop, but apparently the local billionaire out on the town is.
Judy lowers her camera when she realizes she’s been spotted. But instead of going back to her dinner like a normal woman with any sense of shame, she stands up and actually walks over to us.
Wade stands, physically blocking me from Judy’s sight. Like he’s embarrassed by you, the little voice inside me says, right on cue.
I stomp on that voice, grinding it down to nothing. He’s not doing it on purpose. He’s just standing in a small area, and accidentally blocking me from being seen. It happens.
“Hi! You probably don’t remember me Wade, I’m Judy Blandena from Reynolds High. I run the Winston-Salem Society Pages now, and we’re just so thrilled you’re back. Our very own celebrity. Would you mind if I got one more photo of you and your date? It’s just a little thing to you, but it would mean so much to our readers.”
“Yes, I do mind Judy,” Wade says, his voice cold. “And you’re deleting the picture you took!”
“Why, I do declare! Aren’t you all high and mighty for someone who failed Sophomore English.” She giggles, nervous, and turns back to her table.
Wade catches her elbow. “Delete the photo. It was taken in a private location, of a private meeting with myself and a colleague. I’d hate to sue for breach of privacy.”
Other diners are watching now with avid curiosity.
If Wade wanted to avoid a scene, this was the absolute worst way to do it.
“A restaurant isn’t a private location!” Judy snaps, apparently giving up on being charming.
“Is there a problem?” The maître d’ appears.
“Yes,” Wade says at the same time Judy says, “No.”
The maître d’ looks from the camera to Wade, and I can almost see him doing the math as he balances Wade’s fame, money, and influence against the public relations nightmare of a pissed off reporter.
In the end, Judy has to delete the photo if she doesn’t want to be kicked out of the restaurant, but the maître d’ softens the blow with a lot of flattery and a very expensive bottle of champagne.
Wade sits down again, but Judy’s watching us like a hawk, and the next time our waiter comes by, Wade signals for the check.
Just a colleague. Delete the photo. Check please.
I’m trying to fight old demons, but the evidence is mounting. Wade St. George is embarrassed to be seen with me. And it’s pissing me off.
The least he could do is be more subtle about it.
His leg moves up and down with anxious energy while the waiter takes forever to run his credit card. His eyes slide from me to Judy and back again.
And suddenly I’m fed up. I was having a good time. A better time than I’ve had in a long time. But it’s not worth it. It’s not worth having someone who can make you feel that good one second, that bad the next.
Thank God this isn’t a date.
Thank God Judy showed up, before I fooled myself into believing … well, into believing.
“How long does it take to run a credit card?” Wade mutters.
And just like that, something inside me snaps.
“You know what, I’ll just put you out of your misery. Thanks for dinner. See you Monday.”
I grab my purse and stalk out of the restaurant.
“Stella! Stella, wait,” Wade calls.
“Stella Harrington?” Judy exclaims. “You’re dating Stella Harrington?”
But I ignore them both and leave.
The night air is fresh and cold as I step outside, the slap in the face I need right now.
To think, I was almost letting myself hope …
But I’m a broke, pink-haired, foul-mouthed, alcoholic drummer, and Wade’s a billionaire who needs society’s respect to stay that way. For heaven’s sake, he has a fucking morality clause in his contract with his biggest client.
Of course he doesn’t want to appear in the papers with me. He might have a habit of saying exactly what I long to hear, and his eyes might darken when he looks at me, but in the cool light of a camera flash, I can see none of that matters. Because he doesn’t want to be seen with me.
I hear the slam of a door, and footsteps behind me. “Stella, wait. I’m so sorry about that—”
I whirl around to face him. “Sorry about what?”
“Uh … About the paparazzi. About your big night ending like that. What else would I be sorry about?” Wade asks, irritated.
I’d slap the irritation off his face, if I could reach it.
I look at his beautiful face, and I almost want to cry in frustration. I’m so tired of fighting to be treated like I matter. And for a second tonight, I didn’t have to fight. He made it so easy.
And now Wade can’t even figure out why it might hurt to have him so obviously embarrassed by me.
I turn and head down the steps to my car.
He races down the steps, stopping in front of me and cutting me off, and for the first time ever, we’re exactly eye to eye.
“Let me rephrase that. What else should I be sorry for?” His brow furrows, he’s so determined to solve the problem, and I just want to slap him, or shake him, or kiss him, because he’s making it so much harder. If he could just be a consistent jerk, all my problems would be solved.
