Tommy grins at me; it’s not as sexy as the Asshole’s. Damn it all to hell. I was kinda hoping for a flare of attraction between Tommy and I. Anything to forget him. “As always, it’s so much more fun when you’re riled up from something I said.”
“Because you say idiotic things.”
“Sometimes.”
I roll my eyes, but he can’t see it as he drives. “All the time.”
“Depends on who you talk to.”
I snort. “How about you keep that mouth of yours shut and I promise you’ll end up in one piece to our destination, huh?”
We’re quiet the rest of the way, and I mentally countdown until Tommy finds the balls to ask me the question. I know they all are going to ask me; I know Katie’s told them by now. They all know what happened between Hunter and I, that we’re no longer together and that’s going to be embarrassing. But I figure I can just deflect, deflect, and hey, deflect some more because tonight is all about Alex and Teresa getting engaged. Engaged!
I let out a breath I’d been holding and stare out the window.
“I’m sorry.”
My heart squelches in my chest, caught in an invisible grip. I bite down on my back molars to concentrate on something else other than the ache in my chest.
“About what?” My voice is hoarse and said through clenched teeth. If Tommy was smart, he’d drop the whole bloody thing. Tommy isn’t so smart.
“You know, you and the thug. I mean, Hunter.”
Did he have to say his name? “Thanks,” I say, having to clear my throat.
More quiet driving punctured by the beats of country music. Russia loves country music. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“No.”
“’Cause we could, we have some time until we get there-”
I turn to him, hair whipping about. “Is this why you picked me up, to be an asshole? Rub it in? I don’t want to bloody talk about it, alright? I want to go to the restaurant, eat, get drunk, dance and do it all over again until it’s time for you to drive me home. Can you do that for me?”
Tommy’s quiet a long time, looking sheepish and he won’t make eye contact with me, no matter how many stop signs or lights we pass. “Yeah, I can do that.”
I nod in thanks and mentally go over what I’m going to say to everybody once I see them. They’re all going to comment on my weight and probably ask me how I came to lose so much of it.
Rehearsed answer: spinning bike.
The stark truth: I fell in love, got my heart broken, and stopped eating for three weeks while doing intense workouts everyday for up to three hours. Weight loss ensues. Shit happens.
Nobody wants to hear that story. I won’t be able to handle the pity, the look in everyone’s eyes, expecting me to be broken and grovelling, and feeling bad that we’re all celebrating Alex and Teresa’s happy day. I plan on drinking so much wine, my pee could be distilled and used as some other alcoholic beverage for the next week.
Tommy gets out of the car once he parks and comes over to my side to open the door for me. I let him, and take his elbow once he locks up with a beep, beep. He slows his steps as he notices the extreme height of my stilettos, and keeps looking me up and down.
He opens the restaurant door for me and ushers me in with a hand at my lower back, a movement that takes me back to another time and place when Hunter did the very same thing. I move a little faster, losing that point of contact with Tommy. It doesn’t feel right, him having his hand on me, and I hate myself for even having that thought.
Feels like Hunter’s still controlling my thoughts and emotions even after he’s left my life. Resigning myself, I square my shoulders and walk, well I sashay (never thought I would sashay anywhere in my entire life) into the restaurant’s parlour.
Tripoli isn’t your common Greek restaurant. While the scent of oregano, olive oil and basil waft from the kitchen, and the smell of grilled chicken and octopus makes my mouth water for a taste; the carpet is brand new and not shiny from old footprints in the fibers. The decor is bright and cheerful, and the curtains are a darker shade of grey, rather than the heavy maroon of old-school Greek restaurants in the city. Neither is it cramped for space, using every available inch of table real-estate trying to squeeze customers in. Tripoli is welcoming and spacious, the tables are big and beautiful, inviting its customers to kick back and have a chat after a wonderful meal. There’s even a dance floor, and a sectioned area for a live band on Friday and Saturday nights. I wonder if they got anyone booked for tonight; I wouldn’t mind doing some traditional Greek dancing later on, especially zebeikiko, a dance that involves lots of spinning to sad Greek music and shots.I don’t think Alex could’ve picked a better place.