I kept my expression the same, but I could feel the low-level anxiety start to build somewhere around my stomach, which was starting to knot. I hadn’t expected to be confronted with this—not right now, not right off the bat. “It was my mom’s name,” I said quickly, giving him a bright smile, thinking that now would be a great time for our waiter to take our order, or bring us some chips, or something.
“Was?” Clark asked, adjusting his glasses, his voice a little softer.
I took a breath, even as I made sure to keep my expression neutral, wishing I had some kind of prop in front of me. I usually didn’t have to deal with this. Any reporter who ever talked to me knew, of course. And all the guys I’d dated at school had already known about my mom. This was not an explanation I’d had to give that often. “She passed away five years ago,” I said, keeping my voice light, running over the surface of these words, not letting myself get pulled down into the emotion of what they actually meant. To hear me say it, you would think that it was just no big deal. I ended the sentence with a note of finality, the one that every guy I’d dated had understood to mean that I wanted to move on and had happily obliged.
“I’m so sorry, Andie,” Clark said, his eyes seeking mine across the table, as I looked over his shoulder, like I was fascinated with the wall decor. “That’s terrible. What happened?”
The anxiety that had been in my stomach was now traveling in the express lane up to my chest, causing my heart to pound and making it harder to breathe. “It was a long time ago,” I said, hitting the note of finality even harder, wanting more than anything for Clark to understand this.
“So,” I said brightly, picking up my menu again, like I was fascinated by the differences in the fajita dishes. “What do you think you’re going to order?” I looked back at him, making sure to keep my expression happy and a little blank. But it didn’t look like Clark was picking up on this. He still looked sympathetic, but he also looked confused, like I’d just started speaking French and hadn’t told him why.
“What can I get for you two tonight?” Our waitress, in a black and pink BOXCAR CANTINA T-shirt, had appeared at our table, pen poised above her order pad.
I had never been so happy to see a waitress, and I hoped that by the time we’d finished ordering, the awkward moment would have passed and we could start having a nice, normal date. “The bean and cheese burrito and a Diet Coke,” I said, handing her my menu. “Thank you.”
She nodded and wrote it down, then turned to Clark. “And for you?”
“I’ll take the Reaper-ito,” Clark said, and the waitress—her name tag read BECCA—paused and looked at him.
“Did you read the menu description for that?” she asked warily. “Because most people send it back when they realize they can’t handle it.” I glanced toward my menu, which was currently tucked under her arm, and wished I hadn’t given it back quite so quickly.
“I did,” Clark said, adjusting his glasses and smiling at her.
“So you know it has Carolina Reapers in it?” she asked, starting to sound annoyed. “That it’s the hottest thing we serve here?” Clark nodded, still smiling, and Becca huffed and wrote the order down. “Something to drink?” she asked. “You’re going to need it.”
“Just a Coke.”
“And could we get some chips?” I interjected, starting to get a little worried by the fact that none had appeared at our table yet.
Becca nodded and took Clark’s menu. “What kind of salsa?”
“Mild,” I said at the exact same time Clark said, “Hot.”
“I’ll bring both,” she said, rolling her eyes as she headed away, leaving us with each other, and slightly strained silence, once again.
“So what’s a Carolina Reaper?” I’d never seen a waitress warn someone off a menu item before, not even when Toby had ordered the seven-dollar lobster.
“It’s the hottest peppers you can eat,” he said, matter-of-factly. “I’m really impressed they actually have it on the menu. You don’t see it that often.”
I wasn’t quite able to stop myself from recoiling. “Why would you want to do that to yourself?”
“I guess you’re not so into spicy foods?”
I shook my head and took a sip of my water, like my mouth needed to be cooled down just thinking about this. My friends teased me about it, but I preferred all my food pretty bland. I’d gotten adept over the years at eating around offending sauces and garnishes. My dad was the same way—it had become one of those things reporters write about, how he always traveled with his own supply of bread and peanut butter. My mom had been the one to push both of us out of our comfort zones, to make reservations at Ethiopian and Peruvian restaurants, who got us to try Korean barbeque, soup dumplings, and escargot. But without her, both of us had retreated back to what we liked, and for me that was bean and cheese burritos, extra-cheese pizza, and hamburgers without any vegetables on top. “Not so much,” I said, still trying to understand why someone would order something that spicy unless it was some kind of a dare. “But it sounds like you do?”
“Kind of,” Clark said, nodding his thanks at the busboy who dropped off two Cokes, a lemon wedge indicating the one that was diet. “It, uh . . . started as a game between me and my dad.”