CHAPTER THIRTEEN | RORY
In a dress shirt and slacks, I almost passed for normal… which was a good thing, considering I had made dinner reservations at the ritziest joint in town, Maynard’s Steakhouse.
I guess my freshly-pressed duds did the trick, because the maitre’d barely gave me a second glance as he brought me to the table I had reserved at the back of the restaurant.
“Enjoy your meal, sir,” he nodded politely after I had taken my seat.
Seconds later, he was replaced by a waiter who filled my glass with ice water and called me “sir” as he offered me a leather-bound copy of the menu.
These little gestures weren’t lost on me. After a lifetime of sticking out like a sore thumb, it felt surreal to blend in. It felt even more surreal to be treated like I belonged at a place like this.
The last time I had lived in Hartford, the closest I had ever gotten to ‘fine dining’ was indulging in the 2/$1 hot dog combo at the gas station and loitering on the curbside until the manager called the cops on me. Even as a public nuisance, I hadn’t really ‘belonged.’
If you had told my fifteen-year old self that someday I’d be sitting at the best table at Maynard’s, browsing through a menu of $50 steaks, I’d probably fall flat on my ass from laughing so hard. But here I am.
Here I fucking am…
“Can I bring you something to drink besides water, sir?” the waiter asked.
“Not just yet,” I said. “I’m waiting on my date.”
Date.
That word sizzled on my tongue like a bacon on a hot skillet. Desiree’s face flashed through my head, and my heart immediately started thumping in my chest.
“On second thought,” I glanced up at the waiter, “I’ll take a scotch on the rocks.”
“Excellent choice, sir,” the waiter grinned approvingly. “Do you have a preferred vintage?”
“Uhh…”
Fuck. Of course a joint like Maynard’s wasn’t going to serve a $10 glass of Johnnie Walker. What was I thinking?
Seeming to sense my hesitation, the waiter smiled diplomatically and suggested,
“May I recommend the Dalmore twelve-year single-malt? It would make a superb pairing with any of our dry-aged steaks.”
“Sounds great,” I nodded.
The waiter bustled away, leaving me to stare at the empty seat across from me at the table.
I was just starting to imagine what Desiree Leduc would look like in that seat, when I caught a flash of black in my peripheral. I glanced up, and that’s when I saw her.
Even though I had already seen her twice since returning to Hartford -- once in the burning high school, and the second time in the firehouse parking lot -- I felt like I still hadn’t gotten a good look at her. Now, from across the restaurant, I let my eyes feast on every tantalizing inch of Des.
She looked all grown up in a tight black pencil skirt and white silk blouse; like the object of every teenage boy’s ‘hot teacher’ fantasy. She was still short -- something I used to tease her for -- but she had grown into her curves, and something about the way that black skirt hugged her ass made my dick twitch inside the brand new slacks that I had bought just for her.
Part of me had already decided that I would rather devour her than any bullshit hunk of overpriced meat on the restaurant’s menu… but another part of me was overwhelmed by the same protective instincts that I had felt for Des years ago. I had always wanted to keep her safe… especially from guys like me.
Desiree Leduc deserved better than me. She deserved someone who was clean cut and polished; someone with a safe little 9-5 office job. She deserved someone she could introduce to her friends, or feel proud to bring to Christmas parties and summer barbeques. She deserved steak dinner dates and a limitless gold AMEX card. She deserved someone who knew which whiskey to order…
That guy wasn’t me. I couldn’t give Des any of those things… so what the hell was I doing here?
Before I could answer that question, her eyes landed on me from across the restaurant. As soon as I saw her face lit up, all of the doubts disappeared from my head.
Suddenly she wasn’t all grown up anymore; suddenly, she was the same shy girl that I used to share my headphones with on the school bus. Her cheeks turned rosy pink and she raised her hand, waving awkwardly at me from across the restaurant.
I felt my own cheeks swell, and I had to sink my teeth into my bottom lip to stop myself from smiling as I returned the gesture.
I pushed myself up from the table and my eyes tracked her as she made her way across the room.
“Hey stranger,” I said. My voice came out raspy and dry… maybe because I was thirsty for that damn scotch, or maybe because I still couldn’t stop thinking fucked up thoughts about her ass in that tight little skirt.
“Hey yourself,” she whispered back. Her cheeks were still bright pink, and she was wearing a Julia Roberts smile -- dimples and all.
I pulled out her chair and we both took a seat, just as the waiter returned with my drink.
“Here’s your Dalmore twelve-year single-malt, sir,” the waiter said as he placed a square-shaped whiskey glass on the table. A pair of oversized ice cubes clinked in the shallow bath of amber-hued liquid.
“Scotch?” Desiree’s eyebrows shot up in surprise as she eyed the drink, then glanced up at me. “Rory McAlister, you really are all grown up!”
“I could say the same thing to you,” I winked, and as I did, I couldn’t stop my eyes from making a quick slip down to her blouse. The top buttons had been left undone, granting my eyes access to the smooth contour of her clavicle. I forced my eyes away.
You don’t deserve her, I reminded myself.
“Anything to drink, miss?” the waiter asked, turning his attention to Des.
“Umm…” she was caught off guard, and she flicked her eyes down at the menu. “Could I get a glass of your house red--”
“No house wine,” I insisted. Then I glanced up at the waiter and said, “Bring us the best bottle you’ve got.”
“Right away, sir,” he smiled with an affirmative nod, then he bustled away again.
As soon as he was out of earshot, I felt Des kick me under the table.
“Rory!” she hissed. Her eyes were wide, but her cheeks were bright pink and there was a smile playing at the corners of her lips. “The best wine they’ve got?! God, I don’t even want to think about how much that’s going to cost…”
I wanted to tell her that she deserved nothing less than the best, but my tongue tripped on the words. Instead, I shrugged and said, “It’s a special occasion.”
“Oh it is, huh?”
“Of course it is,” I said. “We’ve got eleven years to make up for.”
“Speaking of eleven years…” she traced her lips with her tongue and cocked her head, resting her chin on her shoulder. “What have you been doing with yourself all this time?”
I sighed, easing back into my chair. There were a lot of ways that I could answer that question… and none of them were simple.
“It’s a long story,” I said.
“Well, you just ordered a bottle of wine,” she smiled back. “So I’d say we have plenty of time.”
“Yeah, well I’m not sure this makes for good dinner conversation,” I shrugged. “Besides, I’d rather hear about you--”
“No way! You’re not getting off that easy!” she shook her head. “I want to hear everything.”
“Everything?” I raised my eyebrows. She just smiled and nodded.
Des had never shied away from the ugly parts of me. Even when we were kids, she was never scared off by my bruises or scars. Everyone else saw me as a freak or a misfit… but not Des. Des saw something deeper than my faults, long before I could even see it for myself.
“Let’s start from the beginning,” she suggested. “Where did you go when you disappeared, Rory?”
Good question…
“Boston,” I said. “I moved in with my dad and his other family.”
“His other family?”
“Yeah,” I nodded. “The family he started after he left my mom and me.”
By the time the waiter returned with the bottle of wine, I had gotten out the basics, living at my dad’s house, graduating high school, leaving home, living on the streets, cage-fighting for money…
My story stopped short of one very crucial detail, Charlotte.
“So there you were, tattooed, homeless, and fighting -- literally fighting -- for every meal,” Des beamed at me from across the table as she pinched the stem of her wine glass, swirling it around until the red wine made a funnel.
“Like Russell Crowe in Cinderella Man,” I teased.
“So… what happened?” she asked. “What changed?”
“What do you mean?”
“People don’t just change for nothing. Something must have caused you to snap,” she shrugged. “Something must have happened to make you change. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be sitting here right now. You’d be back in Boston, probably nursing a bloody nose or a black eye. So… what happened? Did you get a lucky break? Did you just get fed up? Did you meet someone? Get married? Have kids?”
The answer to that question was right on the tip of my tongue, I had a daughter. But for some reason, when I opened my mouth, the words didn’t come out.
I wanted to tell her about my sweet baby girl. I wanted to tell her about how Charlotte had turned my entire life around. I wanted to brag about how I had the coolest, funniest, smartest daughter in the entire world. I wanted to pull out the collection of old school yearbook photos that I kept in my wallet...
I wanted to tell Des everything… but I froze.
Suddenly those words from the ambulance played back through my head, We’re practically strangers… ancient history.
I wanted so badly to disprove those words and show Des that I was the same person she knew all those years ago. But now, I wondered if maybe she was right.
Maybe the boy she used to know didn’t exist anymore. Maybe she didn’t want anything to do with the man I had become. Maybe we were just strangers, hanging onto ancient history… hanging onto any remnants of the people that we used to be.
There were parts of me that were dark and twisted. I was made up of the rebel from my past, and some of the shards were sharp enough to draw blood. What would Des say if she knew the truth about me? Would she still see any reminder of the boy she used to know? Or would I just become more and more of a stranger?
Before I could answer that question for myself, the waiter appeared by the side of our table to recite a monologue about that night’s lobster special and prix fixe options.
After five minutes (and a lengthy explanation of the process of dry-aging a steak), he scurried off with our food order and Des and I were left in silence.
“Hey,” she smiled softly. “I just want to say...” her voice trailed off and her eyes dropped down to her lap as her cheeks turned bright pink. “Nevermind.”
“What?”
“It’s… nothing,” she blushed shyly, shaking her head. “It’s too cheesy and stupid…”
“Well now I need to hear it,” I teased. “Come on, spit it out!”
The irony of that advice was not lost me. Des bit down on her bottom lip, then glanced back up. The dim restaurant light bounced off her glassy eyes, and she looked so incredibly perfect.
“I just wish that you could see yourself the way I did,” she said.
I remained silent.
“I mean it,” she continued. “I was so miserable when we were kids, but you were the one thing that made life feel bearable. You made me feel like I was safe. You made me feel like somebody actually cared about me.”
“I did,” I said. “I always cared about you.”
Her eyes flickered, and I lowered my gaze as I took a sip of scotch. Silently, I added, I cared about you more than anything or anyone else…
“Cared,” she said. “Past tense.”
“No, Des. I never stopped.”
Her breath made a foggy cloud as she exhaled softly into her wine glass, then took another sip.
“Why is everything so damn complicated?” she sighed, slipping back into her seat and cradling the glass of wine under her chin.
“Good question,” I chuckled dryly.
“When we were kids, everything felt so messy and awful. I used to blame it on my dad or the kids at school or being poor… and I used to think that growing up meant escaping all of that,” she exhaled wistfully, shaking her head. “I used to think that once I was in charge, I could make my life anything I wanted it to be, and then things would finally be better. Now I wonder if anyone ever gets their ‘happily ever after.’”
“You’re not happy?” I asked.
She traced a finger absently over the rim of her wine glass to erase the smudge her lips had left.
“I am now,” she said finally. “I am tonight.”