Page 93 of Race to Me

We both roam over the menu, and I can tell Foster is confused on what to order. He looks uncomfortable as he mouths different dishes quietly. “What do you want?” he asks. “I want to order for you.”

“Um, fish?” I suggest.

A waitress wearing a sleek black dress arrives at the table, greeting us thoughtfully. “What would you like this evening?”

Foster’s eyes come up from the menu. “She will have the Pan-Seared Sea Bass with Miso butter, and I’ll have the same.” he states, working to keep his voice level. He closes the much too large menu, handing it back to the woman before she steps away.

Him ordering for me, although he was nervous, was adorable.

Small, sweet conversation flows between us. Stolen moments inside this much too fancy restaurant.

“So, tell me about this new thing you’ve got going for you?” Foster reaches his hand across the table to clamp around mine.

My fingers trail along the overly fancy wine glass filled with ice water. “Ballet,” I reply with an excited smile.

“I can’t wait to watch you.” he tells me, his tone implying something more. Something we can’t talk about in the quiet restaurant.

The mirrors at the studio felt like a new beginning for me, one endless and all-consuming. A graceful way for me to outrun my own fate. Not tied down to the life my parents so possessively laid out for me.

College for the status.

Cheer for family tradition.

Marriage to Warren for money.

A planned life. Signed, sealed, and delivered before I could even make my own way. What a sad life that would be when there’s so much more. I believe in choosing my own destiny now. Out here in the world, my life could be anything I want it to be.

I dash my gaze across Foster’s full lips, allowing myself to get lost in the moment and not in the past. It’s absolutely his fault that I only have one thing on my mind right now, and it’s not food.

“Have you done ballet before?” he asks.

A delicate laugh escapes my rose-tinted lips. “No, but I think it may be my new thing. My first practice is—”

“Your dinner is served,” the waitress announces, and a man in a white chef’s hat lays out a carefully plated dish in front of both of us. A puff of smoke leaks out from the fully intact fish head.

“Oh my God,” I whisper, unable to look at Foster as his eyes twinkle with laughter. I snort, and it’s over. His deep laugh fills the space. The chef’s nose crinkles in disgust at our outburst. But how could we not?

When they step away, Foster uses his fork to pick up the face of the fish from my plate. “I didn’t know they brought that part.”

“Neither did I,” I look back at the eyes, feeling a swirling sense of nausea creeping into my stomach.

He shrugs. “Maybe it tastes good?”

I’m growing courageous because he looks so sweet. “Yeah!” I agree, digging my fork in and trying not to hurl. Simultaneously, we both take a bite, followed by a swift journey to our napkins to spit it out.

Foster contorts his face. “This shit sucks.”

“It really does,” I laugh. “Do you want to go?” I suggest.

“Yeah, but I want you to eat something,” He takes one last look at our plates before swiftly throwing the thick napkin over the glaring fish head. “Somewhere else.”

“How about that burger place in your hometown?”

His eyes light up. After he throws a hundred-dollar bill on the table, he walks around to pull my chair out. “Jack’s sounds like a perfect date,”

We can’t help but laugh while we walk away from the table, a fun carefree moment as we dash away. Foster opens the thick wooden door to exit the restaurant, and a group of people sweep through, nearly knocking me over.

“What the fuck, man? I was opening th—” Foster takes an intimidating step forward, then he cuts himself off. His fist is as clenched as his sharp jawline. I follow his line of sight and notice who he’s talking to …

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