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My mouth watered at that. He knows food is my love language. Not that any of my languages are his concern. But still. Jobless has me barreling towards hopelessness at this point and a meal that doesn’t come out of a box with the instructions “puncture film and heat for three minutes” sounded very, very appealing at that point.
Izzy: Deal.
I sent my response before I had time to overthink it. Which leads me to now. Standing in front of a mean mirror searching in vain for an outfit that doesn’t look too anything while kicking myself for saying yes.
Whoever said the camera adds ten pounds apparently never looked in a mirror. Pretty damn sure the mirror adds twenty five. Granted, I did buy this mirror at a Bargain Mart in the five dollar section and it’s worse than the ones in department store dressing rooms.
Eventually, I decide on a short black dress that is fitted on top and flowy on the bottom. The pink flowers set against black say feminine without being too girly (Izzy-not-Isabelle, remember?) and the empire waist gives the illusion that I have a waist. Hourglass is an understatement but this dress feels good on me so I go with it. I also touch up my makeup, run my hands through my strawberry blond curls that won’t behave no matter what so why bother, and head out the door.
Backporch is everything I imagined. With the dim lights, jazzy music, glowing bar top and high value city people, it’s the kind of place my old boss loved. A place I only stepped foot into if the tab was being picked up by a company card. I did alright for myself but not Backporch alright. Not twenty four dollar gin and tonic with muddled berries alright.
I glance down at my phone just as a text from Ethan comes in.
Ethan- I’m a minute behind. Damn Denver traffic. Drop my name when you get there, I’ve reserved a table. Oh and order yourself a drink. See you soon, Isabelle.
The last word grinds on me in contradictory ways. He knows I hate that name. He’s also the only one who can give me goosebumps when he says it. I can’t even hear his voice but I can fucking feel it.
I shove my phone in my pocket and cross my legs as the hostess greets me.
“Welcome to Backporch. Do you have a reservation?” She’s a tiny thing, with pin straight black hair and plum lipstick. Her manicured red nails are so long I’m surprised they work on the tablet in front of her. I brush a rebellious hair behind my ear and offer a smile back.
“Yes.”
Her fake eye-lash rimmed gaze darts up to mine and it’s very clear her smile is forced. “Name?”
Right.
“Savage.”
There’s a flicker of something on her face. She knows him. I mean, I’m not surprised. But I think she’s surprised that I do.
“Right this way,” she says, grabbing two menus and a cocktail menu. I follow her through the tiny tables to a leather booth near the back. He would choose one in the corner, in the dark, where no one can see us. He probably feels weird being seen with me at all. I am a recent literally flop, after all. An Andie Sachs if Andie had tanked before her make-over.
“Food menu here, assuming you’re hungry,” she says as she sets it in front of me. “And libations.”
With that, Wednesday Adams walks back to the host stand and I let out a breath, immediately remembering why I hate places like that. I love good food. And I love a good cocktail. But I don’t love the people who love those things if that makes sense. I much prefer the local place by my house.
A waiter greets me, a young guy with a perfectly trimmed goatee, dark hair dyed to look silver on top, and a diamond stud in one ear.
“Hello hello,” he sings and immediately I prefer him over Morticia over there. “Thirsty?”
“So thirsty,” I say with a sigh as my eyes skim over the fancily named drinks. “I’ll take the…Jane Russell.”
“Good choice. Not the most popular thing on the menu but one of the classics if you ask me.”
“I like the name too.” I add.
“Nobody knew what they wanted like Miss Russell, am I right?”
I smile as he walks off to put in my drink order. And for a moment, I relax. For a moment, I forget while I am here. I forget that I lost my job for being too real and too honest. I forget that despite dining on Marie Callender’s for the last couple weeks and canceling my streaming subscriptions and resorting to boxed-not-bottled wine and clipping coupons (that’s still a thing. Who knew that was still a thing?), this bill is going to be covered and I could probably order caviar if I wanted and Ethan would pay for it.
I actually forget that for the first time in I don’t know how many years I am about to see Ethan Savage in about?—
Well. Now.
Just as the flamboyant little waiter sets down my drink, Ethan approaches the table. He’s wearing a fitted suit that is so fucking fitted, his chest (among other things) are show cased right in front of me. And I realize, this man looks even better than he did the last time I saw him. At forty—what is it now? Eight—he looks leagues better than he did ten years ago and suddenly I am having a hard time controlling my expression.
His hair, more pepper than salt, is slicked back on the sides, long enough that some strays hang loose around his forehead which, by the way, is not receding. His jawline, with it’s just past five o clock shadow, is sharp as ever. Damon Salvator sharp. Could cut mangos sharp. Could sever the rope of a noose sharp. You get the picture.