Page 77 of Reel Love

He’s carrying two menus, but I answer him before he even sets them down.

“Yes. We’re ready.”

I turn my eyes toward Stevens.

It’s still surreal. He’s Wordivore. The man who made me feel so at ease on Joel’s boat. The one who brought me a sandwich when he knew I’d be hungry. The same man I invited to dinner at my home. The one who readsGone With the Wind,and some book about octopi at night, in bed, wearing sexy reading glasses. He’s the one who helped me muster the courage to set a boundary with my mother. This man I’ve been flirting with online … is Stevens. Wordivore is Stevens.

Without taking my eyes off Stevens, I tip my mouth into a coy smirk. Then I ask the waiter, “Do you have anything with bolognese?”

Stevens beams. He’s so transparent and unpretentious. Comfortable. We’re both a little nervous, or maybe we’re simply adjusting to the jaw-dropping reality of all these overlaps between us. If I believed in luck or serendipity, I’d say this wasdestiny. Right now, I don’t know what to call it. Uncanny, for sure.

“We have a house-made bolognese that is our customers’ favorite,” The waiter explains. “You can choose the pasta you’d like it on. We make it fresh every morning and then allow it to cook all day so the flavors are rich and married like a couple in the beautiful Emilia-Romagna region of Italy.”

“I’ve been there,” I tell the waiter. “It’s lovely.”

“I’m from Dozza.”

“Dozza? With the painted wall?”

“Sì, bella donna.”

I smile at him and glance back at Stevens. His eyes scan my face, flitting from feature to feature. A soft smile turns his mouth up when our eyes meet.

“The sauce, it can go on the tagliatelle pasta,” the waiter tells me. “Or your choice, bella.”

I’m still staring at Stevens when I answer. “Le tagliatelle, per favore. E un'insalata.”

“And she speaks Italian,” Stevens says in a low voice, nearly to himself.

I smile over at him—the same smile that’s been pulling at my cheeks since I discovered his identity. “And French.”

His smile breaks open like the sun through clouds. We’re old friends who never met. It’s the oddest sensation, melding the layers together into one cohesive reality. We even have private jokes.

“And for you, sir?” the waiter asks.

“Same. Bolognese. On the pasta.”

“The tagliatelle.”

“Sure. Yes.” He doesn’t take his eyes off mine. “Whatever she’s having.”

“So, also the salad?”

“Right. Yes. The salad, please.”

We’re a sight, I’m sure. Two people, locked onto one anotherso steadily that the rest of the world could blow up and we’d miss it.

“Molto bene. Very good,” the waiter says.

He offers us a selection of beverages and we make our choices, only glancing at him momentarily and then back at one another.

It’s as if looking away for too long might break the spell. Would Stevens disappear? Is he even real?

I reach out without thinking, my hand landing on Stevens’ forearm.

He slowly glances down where my fingertips touch his skin and then back up at me.

“Just checking,” I say.

---