Page 63 of Something Like Winter

“Are we going somewhere fancy?” he asked self-consciously.

“Yes,” Eric said, “but don’t worry. The restaurant is so expensive that it’s actually comfortable.” He laughed at his own joke before adding, “Would you mind driving?”

“No problem.”

They made small talk on the way to the restaurant, Eric just as curious about Tim as he had been the night before. Between asking about his car, what classes he was taking, and anything else that came to mind, Eric gave directions, leading them to a corner of downtown Austin that looked run-down. They pulled in behind a building where a small parking lot held expensive cars. Tim never would have guessed a restaurant was here. Aside from stenciling on a tinted glass door, it had no outside sign.

“What is this?” Tim asked.

“A place where a master works his magic.”

The door swung open for them as they neared the entrance. A stiffly dressed maître d’ invited them inside, his tidy little mustache wiggling. “Mr. Conroy, Mr. Wyman, please, right this way.” The only thing missing was the French accent.

The inside of the restaurant wasn’t at all what Tim expected. Eric was right about the comfort. Instead of starched white tablecloths and confusing cutlery, rustic tables were surrounded by plush chairs. Only six tables were visible in the low lighting, each separated by plants or dressing screens to provide privacy.

“How did he know my name?” Tim asked as soon as the maître d’ seated them and glided away.

“He asked when I made the reservation.”

“How did you know?”

“Your last name? I found it on the fraternity’s website.”

Tim stared at him.

“Are you surprised an old man can use a computer,” Eric asked, “or are you disturbed that I stalked you?”

“A little of both,” Tim said before laughing.

“Champagne?” The maître d’ had reappeared, popping open a bottle with flair, the cork blasting away into the shadowy restaurant. People were lucky not to lose an eye here! Tim would have to remember to duck if anyone else was offered champagne. Golden bubbles filled their glasses before the maître d’ bustled away. Apparently he would be their waiter as well. Hell, he could even be the chef, as small as this place was.

“Here’s to new friendships,” Eric said, raising a glass.

Tim toasted him, feeling a little overwhelmed. He wondered if that was the intention. As nice as Eric seemed, gay was gay, and Tim hadn’t met a gay guy yet who didn’t find him attractive. “So, uh, where are the menus?”

“There aren’t any.” Eric took another swig, gave a satisfied smack, and set down his glass. “Whatever Jeffery cooks is what we get. You aren’t a vegetarian, are you?”

“No.”

“That’s the one exception he’ll make. Trust me, we’re in good hands.” Eric, elbows on the table, rested his chin on his hands. “So, how are you and Travis doing?”

“Oh no you don’t!” Tim said. “This dinner was supposed to make up for me blabbering about my problems. It’s my turn to ask you questions.”

“Oh, I’m boring.”

“I doubt that!”

“Very well.” Eric smiled. “I can’t promise you honest answers, but give it your best shot.”

“Do you live alone?”

“Yes.”

“But your house is huge!”

“It didn’t feel that way five years ago.”

“So there was someone else?”