Page 88 of Don't Tell Me How It Ends
Ro’s everywhere out here. His phantom truck might as well be parked at the curb, waiting for my mezcal-laden ass to teeter out in need of a getaway driver. He didn’t have to volunteer for the role, but he did. Because he’s Ro.
Shit,I think, for the second time since leaving him on read.This is bad.
And suddenly my little black romper that had felt simple and effortless is too short and too tight and too everything.
Any shot that’s a good enough excuse to cancel on Ash?
No. I’m being stupid. I’m not doing anything wrong. Ro and I aren’t together. With the exception of tonight, we’d barely even spoken these past couple weeks. And he knows I agreed to these dates.
It’s all completely true.
It also does absolutely nothing to assuage the solid brick of guilt lodged firmly in my gut as I walk inside.
—
“So,” Ash says as we wait for a table, “this place as good as the old Pizza Shoppe?”
“Oh my god,” I say, relieved that my smile makes it momentarily impossible to continue gnawing the inside of my lip raw. “I forgot about the Pizza Shoppe! That weird mayonnaise they called salad dressing.”
Ash’s grimace is entirely appropriate when he says, “The pink stuff.”
“The pink stuff! God, that place was amazing.”
I’d imagine there are likely entire textbooks devoted to the physiological effects of ingesting mayo-slathered pepperoni “salads” biweekly for four years, but Ash’s face is still shifting to consider it.
Finally, he lands on a smile and says, “I’d still fuck it up.”
We’re both laughing when the hostess returns, beaming at the happy couple, before leading us through the familiar candlelit dining room. There’s still aRoecho from the last time I was here, but when the hostess stops short at our table, I step back to avoid a collision and my shoulder sinks briefly into Asher’s chest. My skin flushes at the contact, and the echo gets a little bit fainter.
“What are you smiling about over there?” Ash asks, unfolding his napkin. I follow suit.
“I just did not see this coming,” I admit. “Being out with you like this.”
“Why not?”
I wasn’t prepared to have to defend my statement. I’d assumed it was a given, but apparently, I’d assumed wrong.
“You were like Mr. High School, and back then, I was still slurping spit through my palate separator.”
Asher winces, but he doesn’t deny the graphic picture I’ve painted.
“Do you still talk to anybody from back then? Michelle?” I’m not sure why I ask it or if I even care to know the answer, but once it’s out there, I shovel an entire baguette into my mouth so I can’t make it worse.
“That was a million years ago,” he says, sidestepping the question.
“Eight, for you,” I correct from behind a fist to minimize the breadcrumb spray.
“Well, it feels like a million. We were kids.”
“So that’s a no?”
Ash laughs and shakes his head. “No, I haven’t talked to her. And before you ask about any other ancient history, since Zola set this up,” he says, referring to the two of us, “I haven’t talked to anyone else either. I’ve just been waiting for you. Like always.”
“Why do guys do that?” I ask, genuinely curious. “You hardly knew I existed and that’s okay. It was a million years ago, right?”
“Well, I always thought you were cute.”
“Asher,” I warn. “Don’t make me box up a perfectly good chicken parm.”
