Page 231 of The Trouble With Bad Boys

The Dinner Date

S.E. ROSE

One

LENA

I stab at my salad, but I don’t feel like eating it. I don’t feel like being here at all, but Thursday nights at 6 p.m. is always at Antonio’s. I don’t remember how the tradition started. When I was about eight years old, my parents and I started coming here for dinner on Thursdays. There were a few times we missed it, like that time I got ridiculously sick with a stomach virus and was such a great kid that I shared it with both my parents, or the time there was a massive snowstorm, and we couldn’t even get the car out of the driveway for three days. But other than catastrophes, this was how I spent Thursdays.

Even over four years of college, I would drive thirty minutes to come meet my parents for dinner. I sometimes brought roommates, boyfriends, or just friends. I never scheduled a class for Thursday night, it just felt…wrong.

I look at my phone again. It’s six twenty. Where’s Vince? He’s never late. For three years, I’ve had this standing meal with a man that I barely know, a man that’s at least three times my age.

It all started when I came here for the first time since my parents’ car accident. I was sitting alone, trying to keep the tears at bay, when a voice broke through my despair.

“Would you care to humor an old man and join me for dinner?”

It was indeed an older man, sitting alone at the table next to me. He explained that since his wife had died, he’d kept coming here on Thursdays which was their date night. He recognized me as another Thursday evening patron.

In the weeks that followed, I made a new promise. I promised Vince that I would meet him there. And so we have met here for three years, one month, and two weeks. We never talk about anything too personal. We just talk. It’s been better than any therapy I could have paid for and it’s one of the only things I look forward to each week.

I scroll through an email from work to distract myself, while Antonio brings me some wine. Antonio owns this little restaurant, and he waits on Vince himself. Vince said it was because they were old friends, but I have a feeling there’s more to that story than what Vince tells me.

Antonio sets my wine down. He opens his mouth as if to say something just as the bell over the door rings. We both look up to see a man a few years older than me walk inside.

Antonio walks over to greet him. He leans forward and whispers something in his ear. The man looks in my direction and nods. His eyes are dark and intense. He looks like he could kill me with a single squeeze of his hand. Unlike Vince, this man oozes bad-boy vibes. I shiver under his intense inspection of me. I see more people entering the restaurant, but my tunnel vision is on the person heading in my direction.

He walks over to the table and looks down at me. “Are you waiting for Vince?” he asks, his voice is low and deep, and it does something to me. Awakens something inside of me that I thought was dead after Robbie broke up with me two years ago. What the hell is happening?

I nod, as I try to find my voice. “Y-yes,” I stammer.

“May I?” he asks as he motions to the chair opposite me. I frown in confusion but then nod.

He sits in the chair with his legs spread, a hand on his right knee is graced with a gold pinky ring with some kind of emblem on it. He’s dressed in a three-piece suit but he’s not wearing a tie. Instead, the top two buttons are undone, revealing olive-toned skin beneath it. My gaze meets his.

“I’m Vince’s grandson, Rocco Lucci,” he explains.

My frown intensifies. I guess I knew Vince had kids and maybe grandkids, but we didn’t talk about our families much other than me explaining my parents’ death from a car accident and his explanation of his wife’s death after a battle with cancer.

“I’m Lena Hawkins. We never really speak about our families, so I didn’t realize he had a grandson,” I state as I reach for my glass of wine and take a long sip.

“Spoke,” he corrects me.

My eyes shoot to his and I force myself to swallow and set my glass down with a trembling hand. “I’m sorry, what do you mean?” I ask.

He leans forward. “I’m sorry, Lena. My grandfather passed away three days ago.”

“W-what? No, I just saw him a week ago and he was fine,” I stammer as I feel my eyes welling with tears.

Antonio approaches the table, but Rocco snaps his fingers and I watch out of the corner of my eye as Antonio retreats. What the fuck was that? Rocco leans forward and places a hand over mine. His thumb caresses the back of my hand. It feels too intense and I pull my hand away.

“I’m sorry, tesoruccia. It’s true. I always wondered why he came here…now I know, a beautiful dinner date,” Rocco muses with a hint of sadness in his voice.

I wipe a tear that falls on my cheek. “I’m very sorry for your loss,” I manage as I start to stand. I should leave. I can’t be here.

My path is blocked by a wall of fine suit material. I look up to find Rocco standing in front of me.

“Please stay,” he whispers as he reaches down and wipes another stray tear from my cheek.

---