Kyle crosses his arms in front of himself, trying to stare down the hostess at Rosalie’s Mexican Kitchen

“I very specifically made a reservation for a table,” he says.

The poor woman looks baffled.

“I can also seat you in the other room,” she offers.

“Is it also a booth?” he says, starting to get snappy with her.

“Yes.”

Kyle sighs and rolls his eyes. I have to look away out of sheer embarrassment for him.

“Sitting in a booth is completely unsatisfactory,” he says, a whine creeping into his voice. “When I called to make a reservation for tonight, I asked for a table, and now I’ve arrived only to find out that you don’t have one available.”

“I’m afraid that wasn’t noted on the reservation, and I’m very sorry,” the hostess says. “If you’d like to wait, I think a table will be opening up in about twenty minutes.”

I swear Kyle almost stamps his foot.

“The standard of service here is—”

I touch his shoulder lightly, because people are starting to stare at the four of us, all gathered next to a big, empty booth while a grown man complains.

“I don’t mind sitting in a booth,” I say softly. “It’s okay, really.”

I glance behind us at Pearl and Gabriel. Pearl’s glancing around the room, like she’d rather be anywhere else, and Gabriel has his hands in his pockets and looks like he’s doing his best to pretend this isn’t the most awkward thing he’s ever been a part of.

“Ruby,” Kyle says, his voice quieter but still much too loud. “I don’t know if you’ve read the Reverend’s pamphlet series on Godly dating, but he very specifically says that booths in restaurants are simply an invitation to—”

“I trust in your better nature,” I say, smiling sweetly at him. “I’m sure you can resist a little temptation.”

Kyle frowns. He huffs. The hostess is trying very hard not to make a these people are crazy face.

“All right,” he says. “We’ll take the booth, but I’d like to speak with your manager.”

As the four of us all slide in, I think what a good date this is going to be.

* * *

The manager is very, very apologetic, and Kyle is very, very self-righteous. Rosalie’s Tex-Mex kitchen is owned by fellow members of our church, and although I don’t recognize the manager, I’d bet he knows who I am and probably who Kyle is.

“The service here has really gone downhill,” Kyle says, still a little too loudly, when the manager walks away.

“I think they made an honest mistake,” I say. There’s a bowl of free chips and salsa, and I take some. “Isn’t table usually a generic term meaning somewhere to sit when you make a reservation?”

Kyle frowns, like he’s got a problem with me correcting him.

“I used to come here sometimes with Lucas, and they were always so nice,” I go on. “Really, I think it’s just a miscommunication.”

I mention my ex-husband specifically to make Kyle uncomfortable, because God knows he’s spent the last twenty minutes making me uncomfortable. I know it’s not nice, but I don’t feel particularly nice right now.

“It’s owned by Godly people,” he mutters. “Any good business owner would have read the pamphlets…”

I eat more chips and salsa and tune Kyle out. Eventually he reaches for one as well, just barely touching the chip to the salsa.

When he eats it, he frowns.

“That’s kind of spicy,” he says. “I don’t know if we should be eating it.”

I take a big scoop of salsa on a chip, put it into my mouth, and chew, making eye contact with Kyle the whole time. It’s barely spicy, and I’m not big on spicy food.

“Tastes fine to me,” I say, wiping my lips daintily, then look over at Pearl and Gabriel. “Is this too spicy for you?”

Pearl shrugs.

“I’m alright with it,” Gabriel says, folding his hands together on the table and leaning forward.

Kyle acts like Gabriel doesn’t even exist. I can’t even blame him, because just looking at the two of them from across the table, there’s no contest. Kyle’s wearing a mint-green polo shirt tucked into pleated khakis, his shoulders shrugged forward, the same haircut he’s probably had since he was five, a perpetual petulant scowl on his face.

Gabriel, on the other hand, is wearing a chambray shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows and gray slacks that make me unable to quit staring at his ass. He’s sitting at the table perfectly relaxed, glancing at me every so often like we’re in on the same joke.

Which we kind of are.

After a few more false starts, Kyle quits whining. He orders nachos for all four of us — no jalapeños — and after we all eat a bit, he seems to mellow out a little.

I ask him about his work with the Reverend, and he asks how I’ve been enjoying my return to my father’s house, though he side-steps mentioning the reason why I’ve returned to my father’s house.

I don’t lie, but I don’t tell him the whole truth.

“It’s been a challenge,” I say, hands folded neatly on top of the table. “It’s taken some time to learn to submit to my father’s authority again after submitting to a husband’s authority.”

Across the table, next to Kyle, Gabriel’s eyebrows go up for a split second.

That must sound really strange to someone not in the church, I realize.

I feel myself blush, and I take a sip of water to cover it up. In my world submitting to a husband’s authority just means doing whatever he says with a smile — and, at least in my experience, it’s never sexual. When I submitted to Lucas’s authority, it usually meant letting him get the curtains that he wanted for the living room, or laundering his shirts the way he liked.

It’s not like he ever pulled out whips and chains or something. When he did initiate sex, which happened bi-monthly at best, he did it by climbing on top of me after we were both in bed already, doing some half-hearted kissing until he was hard enough for the act, and then I had about three more minutes until it was over.

For a split second I think yet again about the barn, up against the wall, Gabriel’s mouth practically devouring mine. I have to take another sip of water.

Kyle just nods, then pauses, and finally looks at me.

“I’m sure it’s a difficult adjustment,” he says. “And I don’t think I’ve ever said this, but I’m sorry for what you went through.”

I think it’s the first empathetic thing he’s said to me, and it catches me by surprise.

“Thank you,” I say.

“Several people have told me that I shouldn’t be thinking of courting you because of your failed marriage,” he goes on. “But you seem like a clever, thoughtful enough woman, so I trust that you’re able to learn from your previous mistakes and carry on.”

Kyle smiles warmly at me, and I realize that he means this as a compliment.

I smile back. It’s my default facial expression, though to Kyle’s right I can see a muscle tense in Gabriel’s neck as he looks at a picture on the wall with a great deal of interest. My stomach twists, and I swallow, getting ready to do something I’ve never done before.

“My biggest mistake was marrying someone I wasn’t suited to,” I tell Kyle, tilting my head slightly, still smiling.

“Marriage is a marathon, not a sprint,” he says, parroting one of the Reverend’s favorite lines. “What happens at the beginning is only a small part of the entire experience, and a great many things can be overcome with faith and commitment.”

Kyle’s never been married, of course. He’s never tried to make it work with someone who would never be interested in him, no matter what.

“They shouldn’t always be overcome,” I say bluntly.

Kyle regards me suspiciously. The muscle in Gabriel’s neck twitches again, and I sit up a little straighter. Normally I’d just smile and agree with whatever Kyle said, because I want this conversation over with, but with Gabriel here I’ve got the urge to argue with Kyle.

“I disagree,” Kyle says, frowning. “Marriage should be an unbreakable covenant, entered into with thought and seriousness.”

“Then perhaps we shouldn’t let nineteen-year-olds enter into that covenant,” I say.

I’ve dropped my smile. I’m still speaking softly, and Kyle looks taken aback and confused that I’m saying any of this.

“People need to marry before they’re tempted into sin,” he points out. “And nineteen is more than old enough.”

I take a deep breath. Kyle’s parroting the stuff I’ve heard all my life, but after walking in on my husband like I did, let’s just say my opinions have changed a little.

But I’ve never argued about this with anyone before, as strange as it sounds. I’m not sure what to say — maybe sin’s not that bad?

Maybe it’s a worse sin to make yourself miserable for a lifetime than to lust outside of marriage a little?

“But people are perfectly capable of—”

“Who got the chimichanga?” the waitress asks over my shoulder.

Pearl raises her hand, and I take a deep breath of relief. Once we all get our food, Kyle says grace over it, and then we’re all too busy eating to talk.

I’m relieved, because I know better. If I argue with Kyle, it’ll only get back to the Reverend and my father, and that would be pretty bad.

Keep sweet, I remind myself. No need to make this too hard on yourself.