Page 20 of Seasons of Love
"You never answered my question yesterday," he said.
We crossed the bridge back to the other side, and I saw the Old Mill building and the bright neon sign for Benny's Diner.
"What question?"
"Did you read the book? I've had sleepless nights wondering."
I welcomed the change of topic as much as the warm breeze in the summer evening.
"I'm halfway. I get the reviews now."
"The ones that wish the author would slay his hands and never think a word again, let alone write it? Or the ones that think he's God's gift to literature?"
Slade wasn't wrong in his assessment of the two review camps. If that book were food, it would be pineapple on pizza.
"Hmm, I think I'll let you judge for yourself. I can give you the book at our next lesson."
Slade's grin revealed a perfect set of teeth that I was absolutely not imagining biting any part of my skin.
"Does that mean you won't give up on your story?"
I shrugged. "What can I say? This biker won't leave my mind alone."
He bumped my shoulder as we walked into Benny's.
Momma Ruth's food was, as always, amazing. How I ever survived in San Diego without this on my doorstep, I didn't know.
"What are you thinking about? You're staring at your steak as if you want to make love to it. I'm a little concerned," Slade said.
He had a crab roll and a salad, which also looked amazing.
"Are you afraid because you're going to walk home alone after dinner?" I took a bite of my steak and smiled as I chewed it.
"I am now," he said, laughing.
"I was thinking, where will I get this amazing food when I go back to San Diego."
"Is that where you're from?"
"No, I'm from New York. I moved to San Diego after college. How about you?"
He sat back and looked out the window toward the garden separating the diner and the Old Mill building. The sun was gone now, so I wondered how he'd get back home in the dark. Maybe there was a way through town.
"You know Wren from San Diego then?" Slade asked.
The avoidance of my question was as clear as if he'd written it on a piece of paper.
I leaned forward, putting my empty plate aside and crossing my arms over the table. The aluminum edge of the table was cold and dug into my arms.
"What's your story, Slade Warren?"
He smiled, but I could see it was forced. We'd only known each other a matter of days, so I had no right to press him for information. It didn't mean I wouldn't let my creative mind make something up.
I raised my hand before he spoke.
"You don't have an accent. My feeling is that this has helped you fit in everywhere you've ever been, and you've been to lots of places."
Slade's gaze cut into me, but there wasn’t any anger in his eyes.
