Page 109 of The Single Dad

“Your waiter will be with you shortly,” the host says, smiling amicably. “Is there anything I can get started for you?”

“Yes,” Cole replies. “We’d love a bottle of cabernet. A Chateau du Glace, if you have it.”

“We do.” The host nods. “I’ll have your waiter bring that right to you.”

The host disappears, leaving the two of us alone. Cole glances over at me.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

“Of course,” I respond, almost instinctively. My hands are wrung together on the table; Cole reaches across to take them, his grip tight and calming. He could be holding my hands—or just soothing my nerves.

“I understand if you’re a little shaken up,” he tells me. “Conflict can be stressful, especially with one’s parents.”

I swallow, remembering what he told me about his father the other night, after I was trapped in the coat closet. “I know, but I think I’ll be okay eventually. It’s not as if this is the first time I’ve had it out with her.”

“But it might be the last,” he says.

“True.” I exhale, relieved as I remember that fact. “Hopefully.”

“Let’s toast to that,” he suggests. As if on cue, the waiter appears to offer us our bottle of wine. He pours a small amount for Cole to taste, then fills both of our glasses.

The wine is a warm, deep red. As it hits my tongue, I taste smoky wood and the sharp tang of tannins. It’s a richer flavor than I’m used to from the cheap, eight dollar bottles of cabernet I would share with my old roommates, or with Olivia. I guess people aren’t making shit up when they talk about wine tasting.

The waiter leaves us alone with our wine and a basket of French bread. We chat amicably, mostly about Archie, until he returns to take our orders.

“The best thing on the menu is the seafood pasta,” Cole tells me. “By far.”

I glance up at the waiter, who nods. “I’d make the same recommendation,” he says, giving me a thumbs-up.

I laugh. “Well, if it’s that unanimous, then I’ll take it!”

“And I’ll have the same,” Cole says. The waiter takes our menus, then disappears back toward the kitchen.

“At this point, I’d take your recommendation on anything culinary. This wine is delicious,” I say, swirling the last of it around the bottom of my glass. “I’ve never had one this nice.”

Cole gives me that warm almost-smile that always makes my heart flutter. “I’m glad you like it. That one’s a personal favorite.”

“I always used to think people were making things up when they suggested good wines. But I guess that’s what you get, when you’ve only ever had the cheapest bottles at the grocery store.”

“Come on,” Cole teases. “Surely some of your artist friends are pretentious enough to get nice wine every now and then.”

I shake my head. “Are you kidding? Artists are broke. They’d never spend double-digits on a bottle of booze.”

I launch into a story about an artist friend from college, a girl from one of my studio classes who used to carry around a flask of cheap tequila to every party. Cole laughs along, and before long, the waiter returns with our food.

As we eat, we continue to talk about stories from school. The pasta is, as promised, amazing. They didn’t serve anything this good at my old restaurant.

“You know, I don’t think I’ve ever asked you—how did you get into painting, anyway?” Cole asks at one point, his expression curious.

“Oh.” Heat rises in my face, and I set the wine glass down, deciding to take it a little slower with the alcohol. I’ve still never been drunk in front of Cole, not even in the slightest.

After the traumatic day I’ve had, I’ll let myself have a little, but I still want to stay sharp. I don’t want to say anything I’ll regret—especially not right now, when we’re on what is basically a date.

“I got into painting while I was in foster care as a teen,” I admit. “I had a bit of a rough time. Most people do, I guess. It’s not a great way to grow up.” I sigh, leaning back in my chair and avoiding Cole’s gaze.

“So it was an outlet for you?”

“More than just an outlet. It saved my life.”

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