Page 107 of Deeper

Rylan

“These words are gibberish,” I tell Callen from across the table.

“They aren’t gibberish. They are French.”

“It might as well be Latin because I can’t read it.”

Dim lighting sets the mood. We’re seated at a cozy nook for two. A candle sits perfectly in the center between Callen and me, basking us in its glow. The linen tablecloth is pristine, and there is more silverware than I know what to do with.

Why do I need so many forks for one meal?

My red dress is too tight, too short, and too bold for this place. Other couples throughout the room dine in perfect comfort.

This isn’t us.

“I feel guilty,” I confess.

Callen sighs and sets down his menu. “Honestly, I do, too. I hate to admit it, but that old man weaseled his way into my life, and now, I’m pissed at myself that he’s locked away. Why the hell did he do this?”

I set down my menu as well. “We need to get him out.”

Callen sips his overpriced craft beer before he answers me, “It won’t be that simple. He went in. He confessed. He had the murder weapon. Anything we do will look suspicious.”

My drink sours on my tongue, but I don’t think there is anything wrong with the grapes that made the wine. Guilt is curdling on my taste buds. His answer is the truth, but it isn’t what I wanted him to say.

With a heavy sigh, I pick my menu back up and stew in the dark thought of Willy dying in prison because of me. The French words piss me off. The hard rock on my bread plate taunts me. The whipped butter has a stench. A couple next to us kisses over their table, and I imagine stabbing the woman’s jugular with one of my three forks. Our waiter approaches and rattles off specials I don’t understand in a thick accent. I picture choking him with his own black tie. Willy is serving my punishment, and I’m still selfishly picturing more blood on my hands.

“Why are we here, Callen?”

The startled waiter blanches at my outburst, and after a beat or two of uncomfortable silence, he excuses himself and strides away.

“You don’t like the restaurant?” he asks in a lowered voice.

“It’s fine, I guess.” My voice is anything but low. “You know what? No, I don’t like it. It’s stuffy and so totally not our style. The perfection bothers me. I’d rather fuck on this beautiful table than eat off of it.”

The woman who I imagined forking a few minutes ago shoots me a dirty look for my vulgarity.

My hostility aims her way. “Don’t act like you and your date weren’t fondling each other under the table. That much was obvious, you stuck-up, prissy bit—”

Callen interrupts my tantrum, “Willy told me to take you on a proper date.”

Suddenly, my tantrum seems unjust. I am a total raging bitch. I am a cunt of a bitch.

I take my focus off the woman next to me and concentrate on my own table. “I’m sorry,” I whisper.

“Rylan, you’re passionate about everything you do. Truthfully, that’s the nice word to describe what I’m thinking. You lash out when you have to deal with emotions that you don’t want to handle. I get it. Sometimes, I wonder if forever with you will come to a sudden halt because you’ve chopped me up into a million pieces in my sleep.”

“Callen!”

“I’m kidding, sort of, but what I’m trying to say is, we’re not proper, and we definitely are not old school. The things in life we take pleasure in are dark and anything but traditional. You’re right. This date isn’t us. It’s Willy and Louise. French food and romantic ambiance aren’t how we connect. I was trying to respect Willy’s wishes, but we need to make our own romance.”

My dark soul soars. Cheesy has never looked so good on a dangerous man, on any man.

The employee from up front approaches our table. “Sir, we’re going to have to ask you and your date to leave.”

The manager eagerly offers Callen’s jacket to him. The woman who was seated next to us returns to her table with a snide look on her face.

Kicked out of the club and now this fine-dining establishment. We’re really racking up the places we’re banned from in this town. We might have to leave town for that reason alone.

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