Lavender Haze

Chapter 17

I don't make the same mistake twice. For my second date with Wes, I tell him I'll meet him at the restaurant I made a booking for. I refuse to run into River and let him ruin my date before it even starts. His words are still ringing in my ears, even if it's been days since he's spoken them. I can't shake them out. Can't find a reason why he'd go through the trouble of chasing after me and painstakingly explain their meaning. Can't understand why he'd need me to understand. River is somewhat careless with his words, which is the other side of the coin of being filthy rich: manners don't apply. Bluntness is seen as a tell-tale sign of power, not rudeness. Words are flung carelessly without fear of repercussions. I'm positive had River hurt someone else with his sharp words, he would have not cared about rectifying that mishap. So why coming after me? Why worrying about my feelings?

Spending so much time with him is slowly driving me to insanity. We've spent something like fifty hours together in the four months I've worked for him and Mila, most of which alone, without Mila's imposing presence. And still, I'm no closer to understand River St. James and what rules him.

So, yeah, I will not take a chance of crossing paths with him before my date with Westley.

Wes is already waiting by the front door of La Cucaracha when I step out of my Uber. This is not the best Mexican restaurant in Brooklyn, but I had to forego La Bodega, because every time I stepped foot inside, it reminded me of Clark dumping me for his now-husband, and I couldn't take the PTSD any longer. When I booked a table here, I went on with the assumption Wes would be into South American food as much as he's into their dances, so I have my fingers crossed as I trail to him, the noise of my kitten heels on the sidewalk beckoning his eyes to me. His dark curls are ruffled by a frigid gust of wind, clouds moving ominously over our heads. Wes smiles and waves enthusiastically, and I find myself smiling back, a small fluttering in my stomach. Okay, yes. This is the moment I've been waiting for. The excitement of the first dates. The nerves threatening to paralyze you. The thrill of figuring out someone new. This is starting to feel right.

When I reach Wes at the entrance of the restaurant, we hug and Wes kisses my cheek, his lips brushing the corner of mine.

"I hope you like Mexican food," I say as a greeting.

"Love it. The spicier, the better."

I take a mock sigh of relief. "Great. This is the place for you then."

Wes opens the door and lets me through first just as the first fat drops of icy rain start splattering on the asphalt. As soon as I step inside, I find tropical weather. I strip out of my winter coat so quickly, I punch Wes in the shoulder in my haste. I apologize profusely as Wes reassures me it's all good. My date hangs our coats on a rack by the door as I give my name to the hostess and she retrieves my booking. When she's finally found it, we follow her to a table in a loud corner of the restaurant. Even though it's Monday, the place is bustling, families chatting animatedly surround us to the right, while couples on awkward dates encircles us on the left. The music is barely audible over the steady flow of conversation, and the smell of food is strong enough that wasn't for the noise all around us, Wes would have been able to hear my stomach gurgling.

We take our seats and ask for a beer each when a waiter comes by to collect our drinks order, then bury our faces behind the menus.

"What's good here?" Wes asks.

I lower my menu to study his face, the wrinkles in his forehead as he examines the heavy cardstock in his hands, his messy dark curls, the crinkles around his pretty brown eyes. Wes is just so objectively good-looking, that boy-next-door charm that everyone seems to love. He's the type of guy a father entrusts his teenage girl to for prom. There's nothing cutting about Wes, nothing sharp or dangerous. Westley Henderson is a main course of roasted chicken (without gravy) with a side of boiled vegetables served in a five-star reviewed restaurant. Healthy, safe (dare I say, boring?). River, on the other hand, is a beef taco bought from a truck in a sketchy ally at three in the morning, sold by an overweight, over-sweaty meaty guy who has notoriously poisoned thousands of people by cooking with dirt-and-snot-coated hands. The best-case scenario: food poisoning; the worst: death. And yet, the uncanny certainty that I'd rather choose food poisoning (or death) over safety washes over me. I hate myself for realizing this, two minutes into my date, and promptly asphyxiate that thought.