Page 28 of A Ruthless Arrangement
The question pulls me out of my cyclical thoughts for a moment. I hadn’t been expecting him to ask something so…mundane. “Um, no…only white wine. My grandfather calls me a wuss,” I’m not just talking about alcohol, and he seems to pick up on that immediately.
“Yes, well, he’s an insufferable man that is pompous enough to think he knows everything. Have you tried a sweet red before?” I shake my head no, and he continues, “Hm. Well,maybe someday I can convince you to give it a try. But, I’ll take it easy on you tonight and not make you try anything new.” He winks at me, and somehow, his consideration of letting me rest in my comfort zone is somewhat charming.
“Thank you,” I say softly.
He nods, still leaning in to whisper in my ear. “You don’t have to answer me now about what happened today. I can see that it’s too much for you. In fact, you don’t have to talk to your grandparents for the rest of the night if you’d like. I’ll carry the conversation. Don’t even force yourself to talk to me, all right? Now, what do you like to eat?”
I practically gawk at him. No one has offered to let me relax in silence before, especially in a social setting. It seems like he’s picked up that conversation, especially small talk, can be taxing for me, and that’s not something I can handle right now. He seems nonplussed about it, too, as if it’s no big deal for me to just…not talk. I try to think about what I like to eat, but the waiter turns to us for our drink orders. My hands clench under the table. I haven’t even given a thought to my drink order or what to say, as I usually rehearse these things. I need to look over the menu to decide based on cost. If I accidentally choose something too expensive, my grandfather might be furious with me.
I register that the Irish Demon is already ordering, and I blink back into focus, even as my mind races with what to do. “Egon Müller Riesling, please. Two glasses.”
I happen to glance up to see my grandparents’ faces, both of them with their mouths somewhat ajar. The waiter looks quite pleased as he nods. “Yes, sir. I’ll be right out with those drinks.”
As the waiter departs, my grandparents look at the two of us in shock and curiosity, but the Irish Demon pays them no mind as he leans back over to me. “As I was saying, what do youlike to eat? Any dietary restrictions? Allergies? What are your preferences?”
My mind races. “Um, no allergies. I’m kind of lactose intolerant but I’ve never let that stop me from eating ice cream.” I try to lighten things up with a joke, and am relieved when he chuckles. “I love seafood, and most vegetables. Except for lima beans, I can’t stand them.” I crinkle my nose and he chuckles again.
“Yes, but what about preferences? What was the term…safe foods?” He tilts his head at me.
I feel my entire body go cold, and I’m sure I pale. “Safe foods? How do you know about that?”He knows I’m autistic?
“Ah. My apologies. But I did do some digging into the woman I’m going to marry.”
My throat feels tight again, and I nod, looking down. I process that, not only does he know, but he also obviouslydiddo research if he knows about the term ‘safe foods’. I’m not quite sure what to make of that.
A gentle hand lays on top of mine, making me look at him again. “Does it bother you? That I know?”
I search his face, but I can’t find any sign of displeasure at the information. Perhaps, if he’s known about it for a while, he’s had time to process and come to terms with it. Still, it made my heart sink a bit. I wonder if he feels like he’s getting married to damaged goods, which is how a lot of people view autistic people. I know I’m not, even though it’s hard not to feel like that sometimes in a world that’s not set up for me, but I know most people don’t understand autism.
I take a deep breath. “No…I just…kind of wish I had the chance of when and how to share that private information, you know?”
He nods. “I understand.” I note that he doesn’t apologize, but he does seem to get it. He’s not dismissing my feelings or makingit seem like it’s no big deal, and yet, he’s not backtracking or trying to explain himself, either.
My interest is peaked, as much as I don’t want to admit it. I also don’t want to admit how much my monkey brain likes it, either.
The waiter returns with our drinks, and my eyes widen at the fancy bottle of wine he sets on the table, nestled in an ice bucket. He sets two wine glasses in front of Mr. Alasdair and I, and then asks about appetizers. My grandfather dismisses him, not ordering anything, even as my grandmother looks a little displeased.
The Irish Demon grins. “Two lobster bisques, please. I’ve been told they’re quite good here.”
The waiter grins and nods. “Yes, sir. Some of the best in the city. I’ll get those put in for you and then I’ll be out to take your entree orders in a bit.”
My grandfather’s fingers tap the table in a steady manner, his jaw clenching and unclenching. “Going all out tonight, Alasdair?”
The Irish Demon chuckles, leaning back in his chair and looking very relaxed. He slides his hand across the back of my chair, and once again, I can smell his cologne, sweet and amber. “It’s the first of many wonderful dinners I’ll share with my future wife. We have a lot to celebrate. Why wouldn’t I want to spoil her?”
My grandfather’s wiry eyebrows crinkle a bit. “What a generous man you are.”
As I look between the two men, I recognize that there’s probably a bit of a pissing contest going on here. This isn’t about me, but about the Irish Demon showing my grandfather up. It’s a display of wealth, and frankly, one I wish I wasn’t a part of.
The Irish Demon doesn’t say anything, but grins. There’s an awkward silence that hangs heavily in the air, and it feels likeacid to my nerves. I shift uneasily in my seat, looking between the others at the table. I see the Irish Demon’s eyes flicker towards me briefly before taking a deep breath. “So, is there anything you need from me regarding the docks?”
My grandfather thinks for a moment, and as they begin to discuss the details of the arrangement and how to proceed, my grandmother leans forward to whisper to me. “Amy. Stop fidgeting. You’re upsetting everyone at the table.”
I feel my back go straight, and I look down and nod. I’m pretty sure tensions are high for different reasons than my fidgeting, but what do I know? I’m probably missing something, a social cue, some sort of expectation that I’m blowing. It’s something I struggle with already, but add on the exhaustion and shock I’m feeling? It’s probably substantial right now.
When the waiter returns for our entrée order, yet again, the Irish Demon orders for me. He seems to have taken my statement for loving seafood quite literally, because he gets me seared tuna with a mango chutney and mashed potatoes. He gets himself a steak with asparagus.
When our lobster bisque arrives, he pops open the bottle of riesling, pouring a generous glass for me first, and then a lighter pour for himself. The bisque is divine, but even if it wasn’t, I’m just glad I didn’t have to order while feeling so overwhelmed, especially after the day I’ve had. I didn’t have to think about the social implications of what I’m ordering, or the cost, or making sure my voice is loud and steady for the waiter to hear. This way, the waiter never even really looks at me. I’m here, but in a way, I remain peacefully invisible, too. It kind of feels like he’s protecting me from the world and I’ve never felt anything like it.
