Page 29 of The Kiss of Deception

In no time, it’ll end. We’ll go back to tolerating each other from a safer distance. The earth can tilt back to its regular balance—each of us at opposite ends.

His brow creases as he plows a hand into his meticulously combed straight strands of ash brown hair. I’m gone before he contests, not interested in whatever he wants to say.

I return five inches taller, the click of my heels pacing the pulsing tension as we pile into the shiny silver European something Miles owns. Determined to ignore him, I fix my gaze on the tinted window. Miles fidgets the entire short drive. I’m not particularly elated to spend my night with him, either—but this is his idea. The least he can do is pretend a dinner in hell with the devil himself wouldn’t be more appealing than a dinner with me.

Although he clears his throat a couple times, he remains quiet. So, I do too.

A grinning man in his sixties with an Italian accent, almost one head shorter than Miles, receives us with a loud welcome in one of the rare family-owned businesses that survive the gentrification of Boston. The owner seems to know Miles, the familiarity in their interactions evidence of their friendship.

The Italian doesn’t shy away from physical contact, cupping my cheeks to greet me with two kisses. I stare at him, a little stunned, and he stares back with a look that feels uncannily like he’s trying to see right through me—and determine whether I’m worthy of his precious boy.

“You have cunning eyes.” He’s cryptic. “But be careful. Sometimes, it is the traps our own minds set for us that bring us down.”

“Lucas is the owner.” Miles intervenes, an amused tilt to his lips. Lucas arches a bushy eyebrow that prompts my fake-lover to add, “And a friend!”

Although the torture devices on my feet give me some additional height, my forehead barely reaches his chin, so I have to tip my head to assess him, wondering if this is some ambush for his personal amusement.

“I come here way more often than any professional athlete should,” he explains when all I do is use my cunning eyes to keep staring.

“Still not often enough.” Our host tsks. “Come, let’s get you to your table.”

He leads us through a maze of tables that defies the notion of space, winding from one side to the other like he could walk with his eyes closed, chased by the delectable smell that intensifies with every step.

Our table sits clad in a traditional red-and-white checked tablecloth in a secluded corner, undoubtedly designed to provide us a thin veil of privacy. Behind it, I breathe easier as Miles, the picture-perfect boyfriend, pulls my chair for me.

Lucas leaves us with the menus.

Like he doesn’t want to drag this longer than strictly necessary, a sentiment I suppose I appreciate, Miles dives straight into perusing his options.

“I’m afraid I can’t make one recommendation. Everything here is to die for.” He shoots me a fleeting apologetic look over the pamphlet.

“Then you could’ve pointed a finger and picked at random,” I say, opening my own menu. The smell of fresh bread has awakened my growling stomach, and I salivate as my finger traces the options. “Maybe I’ll just try them all.”

“I’m sure that could be arranged.” Miles is pensive, working the logistics of the order in his head. “Knowing Lucas, he’d love you for that. Or hate you. Might go either way, honestly.”

As though conjured by name, Lucas returns with a bottle of white wine and a question. My answer is a spicy shrimp Fra Diavolo while Miles opts for the healthier shrimp-and-quinoa stuffed peppers.

As we await our food, I busy myself examining the small space, cozy but not claustrophobic. The walls are naked except for four paintings of stunning landscapes conjured from a dream.

A willow leaning over a river, its branches falling on the riverside like a cascade of greens, blues and yellows. The other three paintings are much too far away for me to catch the details, but the common denominator is undeniable. Every piece of art is an anthem to the homelands of their ancestors.

The tables are distributed across the room in an arbitrary fashion. The beige hue of the walls, combined with the golden lighting dripping from the chandeliers, bathes the room with an intimate aura.

“I’ve been meaning to apologize,” Miles says then. “For the other night.”

I lean back in my chair, watching as he fiddles with the white linen napkin, his knee rippling the tablecloth as it bounces under the table. “Apologize, then.”

“I’m sorry. I respect you, and I respect your job and… All that—it wasn’t about you. It was all me, and it was out of line. I was out of line. I’m sorry.”

That night, in my famished fury-haze, I’d made the decision to not broach the subject again and let him squirm in my silence, anticipating when my petty reciprocation might come. As he apologizes unprompted, like a mature person, I’m forced to acknowledge his apology—and let it go, like the adult woman I am.

We eat to a symphony of clattering cutlery and bursts of laughter and Italian music, mouths occupied with chewing and tasting, rather than speaking and arguing.

“So…” Miles smiles, and I find I missed that smile, I think. His face isn’t complete without it. It’s strange, and that weirds me out. “Why journalism?”

My teeth falter mid-bite.

It didn’t occur to me that we would actually do this—dive deeper than trivial facts and random favorites, though I suppose it makes sense. It’s only wise to know more than the bare minimum about each other—for the sake of this farce.

---