Page 75 of Triple Play

Shira

“When you say this is farm to table”—Felix taps his menu where it’s sitting open—“which farm, exactly?”

“Careful,” I tell the waiter, “if you answer him, he’s gonna ask to inspect your maple syrup.”

The waiter—whose uniform is immaculately unwrinkled, whose posture is similarly stiff—nods. “I would be happy to inquire with the chef, sir,” he says to Felix.

I tsk. “Don’t call him sir, he likes that too much.”

Next to me, Blake practically chokes on his wine. I bat my eyelashes at him innocently, while the waiter glances between us.

“And,” Felix presses, “when you say this beef is grass fed, do you mean grass fed or grass finished?”

Blake finally recovers his composure, then leans over and kisses my hair. “We’re gonna be here a while, aren’t we?”

I tuck myself against him. We’re seated in a circular booth around a sturdy table made from what Felix identified as oak. Jazz plays over the speakers; an electronic candle flickers at the table. It’s romantic. Or would be, if Felix wasn’t asking about every ingredient and nodding as our server patiently explains where the cow went to college or whatever.

“When he said he wanted to check out the farm-to-table restaurant,” I say, “I didn’t think it was because he wanted to start a fight about agriculture.”

Felix pauses in his interrogation of the waiter. “I thought the agreement was we’d all do what the other one suggested.”

Yeah, but I didn’t mean like this… I pluck a breadstick from the basket and slather it with honey butter that the menu claims is produced locally, though I’m sure we’ll find out. With my knife, I gesture between Felix and the waiter. “You should leave this poor man alone.”

“You got somewhere else better to be?” Felix teases.

“You know, it’s funny—I don’t.”

Something in the way I say it makes Felix close his menu. “I’m actually ready to order.”

“You don’t have to be.”

He gives me and Blake a slow, unmistakable once over. “No, I’m good—I think I finally know what I want.”

Felix

Our food comes. Shira ordered macaroni and cheese—the high-end version of it. She groans around each forkful. Two days ago, I would’ve pretended not to watch her. Yesterday, I might’ve watched her with my heart in my throat. Now my pulse threads through me, warm and low.

When we’re done eating, the waiter clears our dishes and returns with heavy-bottomed tumblers of bourbon before he disappears, leaving us alone. I rotate my glass, watching the slide of the liquid, inhaling its subtle smoke.

“You gonna ask for a dissertation on how this got aged?” Blake asks.

Shira laughs. “He obviously wants to visit the forest they got the barrels from to say hi to the trees.”

I shake my head. “Nah, bourbon always seemed like too expensive of a hobby.” At least for a career minor leaguer like me. “I’ll stick with home brewing.”

“Of course you brew your own beer. How about cheese? Pickles?” Shira ticks them off on her fingers.

“Yeah, but none that well,” I admit. “You gonna make a list? Felix Paquette is bad at everything.”

“Well.” Shira takes a delicate sip of bourbon, eyes sparking above her glass. “Not everything.”

If we were alone, I’d pull her to me, kiss her deep the way I held myself back from at that rest stop. I may not be as good at everything, but I’m also not a cheater. Still, I can’t help feeling a little drunk on her, on how Blake throws glances our way—like he approves.

“Bourbon’s better when it’s warm,” Blake says.

I take another drink. It’s all right. Smoky, but like its complexity is hidden below the burn of alcohol. “You saying I’m not doing it right? I might need a demonstration.”

For a second, Blake seems like he might laugh it off—like we’ll recede to being the people we were when we started this trip. Until he pulls Shira to him. “Put a little in your mouth, sweetheart,” he says, “just enough to give me a taste.”

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