Unworthy Of Love (BXB)

41. Pasta

NOTE: This chapter hasn't been in the original version of this novel (was added on 21 Nov. 2020).

"How about we talk about us?" Raven says.

"How about we just eat?" I say.

It's dark behind the large glass windows, but inside of the restaurant, the light is yellow and cozy. It's the middle of the week, so the place is mostly empty and quiet, apart from the sounds of dishes coming from the kitchen and some Italian song playing through the speakers. There's only one other guest that I can see, an elderly man sitting in the booth next to ours, reading a newspaper, so it feels like we have the place mostly to ourselves.

Raven leans back on the red leather couch, watching me.

"We could have eaten at home," he says.

"I wanted to take you out."

"Aww." He leans forward again, placing his elbows on the table. "So, it's a date? After everything, we're finally having a date?"

I glance up at him, a bit uncomfortable with the idea of taking another dude on a date. In my mind, the concept of dates is still mostly connected to girls. On the other hand, it would be silly to make a big deal out of it given that I've had sex with the guy—more than once, actually.

"Yes," I say. "It's a date."

"All right." He grins. "Where're my flowers, then?"

"Just eat your pasta."

"So romantic." He picks his fork and pokes at the mostly untouched spaghetti on his plate. In the soft light, he looks nice—his hollow cheeks having filled up a bit after a month of his cooking for both of us. During that time, he hasn't gone anywhere but to the grocery store, and his self-imposed confinement has begun to worry me, which resulted in me proposing this 'date'.

"What did you want to say?" I ask after a pause. "About us?"

"I don't know." He shrugs, looking at his plate. "I kind of feel weird—like, I live with you, you work, I cook, I clean, we fuck. I mean, where is it going? Am I supposed to start paying my share of the rent, for example? What kind of relationship is this?"

"I got the rent for now. You obviously can't pay anything, not having a job. When you get one, we'll see."

"Yes, but apart from that—what are we? Friends with benefits? A couple? "

I throw a quick glance at the old man with the newspaper, but he seems too emerged in his reading to have heard us.

"Keep your voice down," I whisper.

Raven raises an eyebrow, apparently still waiting for my answer. I sigh and put my fork down, then reluctantly meet his expectant gaze. He looks lovely with his long dark hair framing his face that has finally regained some color. He no longer looks sick or exhausted. It feels nice to know that it's partly my doing.

"We're a couple," I say. "I case it wasn't clear."

He smiles. "It was clear, but I could use a confirmation. Now, if we're officially a couple, why should I keep my voice down about it?"

I sigh and check the man with the newspaper again.

"Because it's personal. It's not something to shout about from the rooftops."

He shrugs. "You're such a macho in some things, and so shy in others."

"I am what I am," I mutter, returning my attention to ravioli in my plate. "Sorry if you don't like it."

"I didn't say that I don't like it."

"Then shut up and eat." This comes out harsher than I intended, but he's making me so nervous with this conversation that I can't help but bristle up. I only intended to take him out to eat, not to talk about us. Calling this meal a date, naming us a couple—all those things sound a bit threatening when said out loud. Even if deep inside I know that's what we are, giving things names makes them feel more real, leaving me with no choice but to accept certain things about myself that I've been reluctant to face.

"I can't eat this," says Raven. To my relief, he doesn't sound offended. "I could make better spaghetti with both my hands tied up behind my back."

"It's an Italian restaurant. They've invented the thing."

"So what? Look, it's all watery."

I roll my eyes and look around in exasperation. My eyes catch on the old man again. He's looking at us now, smiling a little, his silvery hair glimmering in the yellow light, his newspaper lying on the table next to his tiny cup of espresso. He nods at me politely, and then turns to Raven.

"Excuse me," he says. "I couldn't help but overhear that you're not enjoying your meal."

"Damn right I don't," Raven replies readily, picking some pasta with his fork and showing it to the man. "Look how watery it is."

"I believe it's just the sauce."

"Yeah, whatever, but it's too liquid, don't you think? Something creamy could be better, or at least the good old tomato one."

"You could have picked a tomato sauce when you ordered," the man says, still smiling. "It's specified in the menu. Although I personally believe it goes better with spiral pasta."

"Really?" Raven shrugs, placing his fork back in his plate before returning his attention to the man, apparently happy to encounter someone more inclined to talk than me. "So, you eat here often?"

"Almost every day, yes."

"You must like this place a lot."

"I do." The man nods. "But I own it, so that's hardly a surprise."

Raven's eyebrows shoot up, and for a brief moment I enjoy the rare sight of him being taken aback. He pulls himself together quite quickly, though.

"So..." He leans forward and bats his eyelashes at the man. "Perhaps you need a new cook? To replace the current shitty one?"

The man's smile grows wider. "Given that our current cook is my son Mauricio who's been learning the profession in Europe for two years, I don't plan to replace him any time soon."

"Oh." Raven' face crumbles a bit. "I see."

"We do look to hire a new waiter, though," the man says, eyeing Raven. "Could that interest you?"

"As a matter of fact, it could." Raven's lips stretch into a smile again. "Why don't you tell me all about it?"