Page 158 of Something So Strong

The hint of a smile floats across his lips, and he busies his hands fixing my scarf. His scarf. The Burberry one.

Like a collar, it ties me to him, and with his name permanently inked into my skin, I’ll be his loyal companion for as far as he lets this journey take us. Because this is it for me. He is my soulmate. My one and only. My fairytale prince. My protector.

“Do you believe in fate?”

“Fate?” Jesse takes a step forward in the line. “Not really… To think everything was pre-planned for us before we were even born… Who the fuck has time for that?”

Pushing off the window, I move behind him, wrap my arms around his waist, and lean my chin forward on his shoulder. “Me either,” I tell him, even though I’m not sure what I believe. Because—truth be told—my parents always being destined to be cunts is a far easier pill to swallow than admitting I was what made them so brutally miserable.

Jesse brings his hand to rest on top of mine. “Good. Cause there’s no way anyone could convince me a little baby would ever deserve what you’ve been through… And… how? How could they pick? How could they ever have a rational argument for which soul gets born into which baby? Why does one deserve to be born with the world at their fingertips and the next to a mother who has to die to give them life? And even after that, there’s no hospital. No healthcare. No food for the poor thing to eat. And their father doesn’t want them anymore because his new wife wants her own kids and they end up dying alone in the dust.”

I can feel the tension in his muscles as clearly as I can hear the subtle tremor of his voice. And I know, more than he’s angry for all the injustice and cruelty in the world, he’s angry for me.

I love you, Jesse. Heart and soul.

I don’t deserve you…

“Next, please.”

“Kendrick. For two.”

The tip of a pen runs down the list. A line is drawn, and the comfort of having Jesse so close is ripped away from me as we’re ushered into Fernandas’.

It’s warm, classy, expensive, and way out of my comfort zone.

Everything in the restaurant looks like an old sepia photograph, including the staff’s uniforms. There’s a narrow bar that cuts the room in half, with chairs the entire way around it. And our seats are on its front side, right at the end of a long communal table.

“I’m sorry,” Jesse whispers in my ear—letting me move in front of him to take the chair against the wall so my back isn’t to the open room and the door. “I asked for a private table, but I guess I left it too late to book.”

Successfully taking my seat without making eye contact with the people beside us, I pick up the menu. Scanning the page, it only takes me a few seconds to realize I don’t understand anything that’s written. And my eyes widen with a sharp inhale through my nose when I notice the prices.

I close the menu and put it back down. “When did you organize this?”

Jesse leans forward on the table. “Yesterday after work.” The smile that follows tells me to not ask any more questions about it because he doesn’t care how much it costs as long as I have a good time.

“Do you need help with that?” He looks down at the menu in front of me but ends up opening it before I have a chance to respond. Then, in—what I can only assume is—perfect Spanish, he reads the dish’s names and explains the ones he knows. Which is most of them. And when he’s finished, I have nothing to offer but a blank face.

“Do you just want me to pick?” His smile is tight-lipped and I can see in his eyes he’s having a grand ole time watching me squirm. It’s not malicious, it’s because he thinks I’m cute when I’m this kind of uncomfortable. Just like he was adorable when I took him to Tanaka-San’s and he had no clue what was going on.

Trying to push my compulsions to the back of my mind, I nod yes to his offer, and as I do so, I feel his feet slide between mine beneath the table.

Jesse’s smile widens enough to push up his freckled cheeks, and the light from the candle just off to his right side dances across them. “How about a drink? You can’t have tapas with water.” He slides the drinks menu in front of me.

“Why don’t you just tell me what to get?” I push it back towards him.

“Well.” He opens it but doesn’t look at anything. “In London, I usually get whiskey or beer. But when we go to Spain with Romeo, we always get Sangria.”

“Sangria?” Seriously?

“Yeah,” he nods. “Sangria… Cava’s the best.”

“Cava?” This time I don’t know what he’s talking about.

“It’s Spanish sparkling wine. And there’s brandy and pineapple juice and strawberries. It’s really good.”

It’s my turn to lean forward on the table. “Sounds a bit gay.” I’m only teasing, but I can’t resist.

“Maybe it is.” He smirks. “But that doesn’t make it bad.”

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