Speaking of practical—her little black dress and the classic-not-trendy heels.
I’ve never actual y seen her upper arms before, since the sleeves of her t-shirts hang to her elbows. Her delts and biceps are curved and defined, strong but stil feminine.
The classic square neckline exposes the lines of her col arbone and the flutter of a pulse at the base of her throat, but isn’t low enough to show any cle**age. The waist nips in just under her ribcage, somewhat fitted. I’m familiar with her legs, of course, though her work shorts actual y show more of them. Not that this says much.
“This is the best I could do.” She breaks into my reverie, gesturing to her dress. “I hope we aren’t going anywhere too fancy.” Her hands twist in her lap, and I realize I’ve been staring at her. No one in the history of my dating life has dressed so sensibly and riveted my attention so entirely while doing so.
“First, we look pretty damned coordinated.” I indicate my gray slacks and black shirt. “Second, I’m used to seeing you in construction boots and a noble t-shirt de jour, most of which are pointedly anti-everything-I-stand-for. Your little black dress is a charming substitute.” She sucks her lip into her mouth and I strive to ignore that token of her uncharacteristic anxiety and the memory it evokes. “I think you’l like where we’re going. No worries, okay?” She nods, the corners of her mouth turning up, just barely, in a tiny indication of trust.
The restaurant is hole-in-the-wal and below street level, situated just off of a standard strip mal . It’s mom-and-pop Italian, unfrequented by celebrities, so no one is ever expecting to see one. Even if I’m recognized, I can almost hear the No, that can’t be him thought that fol ows. I’ve never brought a date here, because it’s my secret and I don’t want it spoiled.
The driver drops us at the door, and two minutes later we’re shown to a booth in the corner. This is the best part—
the booths around the perimeter are enclosed in their own wooden cubicles. The paneled wal s separating each booth extend to the low ceiling and have hinged doors that can be pul ed shut, concealing the interior from other patrons.
Inside, the ancient paneling is coated in graffiti, sharpied or carved into the wood: M+L always & forever, Katie loves Antonio, Stephanie & Lauren BFFs 4ever!
Dori sits across from me, her gaze drifting over every detail. A trio of flickering low-wattage “candle” bulbs inside a beveled-glass hanging lamp casts a soft glow over us both. The waiter steps up to the table with a basket of bread and two glasses of water. He extends the wine list and I take it, asking Dori, “Do you have a preference?” I’m not surprised when she answers, “Oh, I’m fine with water,” but it does make me wonder if she ever drinks at al .
The very proper eighteen-year-old daughter of a pastor. I’m guessing no.
I hand the list back to the waiter. “Nothing tonight.” I can go without for one evening.
“Very good, sir,” he replies, offering menus and rattling off the specials before asking if we’d like the doors shut while we decide.
“Sure,” I say. “And no rush.” He swings the doors shut and we’re treated to additional graffiti—more declarations of love forever, plus a few artistic doodles and an Oscar Wilde quote. “What do you think? You look apprehensive.
Do you want the doors left open?”
She smiles, and relief washes over me. “No, leave them closed. It’s cozy. I had no idea this place was here. How did you find it?”
“My parents and I used to come often, when I was young.” The owners remember my parents by name, and ask me about them whenever they’re here. Their son runs the place now, so luckily that coincidence is rare.
“You don’t ever go out with them now? Do they stil live in LA?” Dori asks, as though she’s reading my mind. Damn.
“They do. But my father is a workaholic and my mother’s an alcoholic, so we don’t real y do the family outings anymore.” I take a deep breath after this disclosure, incredulous to have just divulged that level of familial defect.
Her eyes don’t leave mine, her brow creased, compassion al over her face. This is the sort of expression that usual y infuriates me—and yes, I know who I’m actual y furious with, but that fact doesn’t stop me from lashing out at whatever unfortunate person sits there, daring to think they know how I feel. “I’m so sorry,” she says. For some reason, I believe her.
“Yeah, it sucks.” I have to redirect this conversation, now.
“I take it you and your very nice parents stil do family dinners, etcetera.”
She nods. “We’re pretty nerdy.” Leaning up, she gets a mischievous look in her eyes and stage-whispers, “We even have Scrabble night. You almost nailed that one, when you listed the stuff I do with my evenings. Except it’s on Fridays, not Tuesdays.”
Oh, God. “Wow. I’m such an ass**le.”
“Hmm,” she says noncommittal y. “I have a confession.” Her expression is unwavering, and I instinctively brace myself. “I didn’t expect you to work so hard over the past month. Or to be so unpretentious and respectful. With, you know, everyone but me.”
I laugh. “I was respectful to you! Sort of.” The memory of coaxing her mouth open with my tongue almost knocks the amused expression from my face, and I fight to keep it there. “But I wasn’t, at first. I was a complete dick, and I’m sorry about that. I pegged you as sanctimonious and self-righteous, and I was wrong.”