Page 8 of Then There Was You
“Sosie.” A woman much older than her mom comes through a curtain hanging from a rod above the kitchen entrance. “You came to see us.”
Taking her hood down and pulling her scarf from her neck, she replies, “It wouldn’t be Christmas if I didn’t.” There’s more to this story, it seems. “This is Keats. Keats . . .” She glances up at me. “This is Joy. Her family owns the restaurant.”
“Nice to meet you, Joy.”
“It’s the best ramen in the city, handsome man.” When she winks at Sosie, they giggle. “Follow me. I have a special table for the two of you.”
“Oh no,” Sosie utters under her breath, and I stiffen. Surveying the area, I don’t see anything suspicious to cause her reaction, so I follow with a shrug, stripping off my coat. We approach a table for two on a platform in the middle of the restaurant, and suddenly, her concern makes sense. I press my lips together, catching Sosie’s eyes as she struggles to hold in alaugh. The center of attention is not my idea of a good time, but she’s more gracious than I am and thanks Joy as we step onto the platform.
“This should be fun,” I whisper sarcastically as I tuck the chair under her.
Joy sets the menus down and whisks our coats away, leaving us on display.
As soon as I sit, Sosie leans forward and whispers, “I didn’t have the heart to say no.”
“It’s okay.” My gaze meets a couple who have stopped eating to stare at us. Maybe they think we’re celebrities or some big deal. Nope. Sosie just knows the owner. “I’m sure we won’t notice after a while.”
We notice. We can barely talk without other patrons looking at us. It’s like they’re playing a game of guessing who the VIPs are who scored the platform table. “It’s like swimming in a fishbowl, but we can’t swim, so we just have to watch everyone as they stare at us.”
“OrStarry Nightby Van Gogh. There are plenty of paintings in that room of the MoMA, but everyone only stares at it like the other artwork doesn’t exist.”
Chuckling, I say, “Yeah. Just like that.”
She pauses, does her own quick survey, and then cups her hand along the side of her mouth to whisper, “I’ll tell you a secret.”
I lean in, wanting all the secrets she’ll share with me. “Stays between us.”
With a conspiratorial grin growing on her face, she says, “I’ve always wanted to sit at this table.” My shoulders ease under a breath. Her sweet confession reveals such innocence. “I always thought it would feel so fancy to sit on a platform made for two. I’m glad I get to eat here with you.” I’m irritated that this is a highlight for her. Something so simple could mean so much,and she’s never had anyone to share it with, which pisses me off. She should never have been eating here alone, much less on Christmas.
“Me, too.” I realize that all the other eyes on us don’t matter. Only the ones from across the table that are looking at me like I hung the moon do.
After ordering our food, she sips her hot tea, and I drink water. Setting my glass down, I say, “You took a sabbatical fall semester. Just time off or?—?”
“I’m a photographer.” Confidence shines in her eyes as sparks flicker to life. “I traveled and took photos to build my portfolio.”
“Sounds incredible. I’d love to see your art.”
She licks her lips and takes hold of her teacup again as the apples of her cheeks stain pink. I’m fascinated, so fucking intrigued by how she wavers between bold-faced confidence and a shyness that colors her cheeks.Who is she?
“I’d love to show you,” she beams. I would be content to relish in her happiness all night, but Joy clears her throat as she steps onto the platform with steaming bowls in her hands.
“For you, Sosie. Your favorite.” Joy smiles, setting it in front of her. And when she sets a bowl in front of me, she says, “Let me know if you need anything.”
When she leaves, I catch Sosie’s eyes shining like a thousand galaxies are trapped inside, and I can’t help the involuntary smile that spreads across my face. I lean closer, hoping to steal an ounce of that warmth to savor later when I don’t have her sunshine shining on me.
“Another time?” she asks.
“Definitely.”What were we talking about?
“What about you? You’re a writer?”
“I’m a finance major. Growing up with no money didn’t inspire me to want to be a starving artist.” I realize too latehow that might sound. Attempting to remove the foot from my mouth, I reason, “It’s okay to pursue passions. I just meant?—”
“It’s okay.” Her smile is gentle, and no judgment resides in her eyes. “I don’t take it personally. I’m fortunate to have the ability to take time off like that.” Holding her spoon with broth filling the scoop, she says, “The email from earlier was a writing class.”
Why am I holding back? If there’s one person who would appreciate knowing my dream, it’s her. “I’d like to be a writer.”
Setting her spoon down, she tilts her head. “You would?”
