Hal breaks off a breadstick and dips it straight in the pot of whipped butter in the middle of the round table we’re sharing. He doesn’t seem to mind that the menu didn’t have prices or that I ordered my steak still mooing and without the grainy mustard or that the waitress didn’t seem amused with the way I placed my order.
“So, Stella.” Hal looks at me like he hasn’t known me my whole life while I stare back at him like I wish I hadn’t known him my whole life. “Tell me something I don’t know.”
“Oh Christ, not this game,” I mutter under my breath. I reach for a breadstick, just to have something to do. I don’t touch the butter because Hal has double-dipped, and yeah, just no thanks.
I bite into the still warm, crusty little piece of bread and barely stifle a gasp and moan of pleasure. Oh. My. God. This is bread right here. This is bread done right. I stuff the rest into my mouth, and before Hal can plunder the basket, I reach over and snatch it. I tuck it onto my lap and wrinkle my nose at him, chewing obnoxiously.
“Oh my god, yum!” Though it sounds more like “ohhh mph gwomf fmymmmmm” past all the bread in my mouth.
“No. Really.”
“Ummm….” I swallow and gulp at the fizzy water, which kind of tastes like old socks were diffused into it. “You’re a shit-loving numbskull?”
Hal only offers me a look of pure encouragement. I decide if I tell him something not insulting, it would actually be more effective because he would never see it coming.
“Alright.” I cradle the basket of warm bread on my thighs. It’s probably getting my dress greasy, but whatever. It’s not like I’ll have a reason to put it on again anytime soon. This is likely the only date I’ll be going on for the near future. It’s not a date. Being forced to be here in order to get Hal to buy me out doesn’t count. “I’ll tell you I respect you for one thing and one thing only.”
“What’s that?” Hal seems more interested now, and he sits up a little bit straighter.
For some reason, it makes me think of the smell of his cologne when I slid into the car with him. He usually doesn’t wear anything other than disgustingly cheap, nasty-smelling deodorants made for men. And when he does, like my brother, he applies it too liberally because apparently, they aren’t old enough to have figured out that those kinds of things are for high schoolers who stink because of hormones, not to be used on grown men. I was pleasantly, and by that, I actually mean unpleasantly in all ways that count except my nose, surprised to find Hal wearing a cologne that didn’t stink like the inside of a teenage gym bag.
A nasty shiver goes up my spine at that thought, so I push it away. He was just doing my nose a favor, and my nose appreciated it. I will forever deny that anything else was affected by said cologne, which happened to smell like an exotic blend of cloves, sandalwood, and burnt coffee. Yes, it was delicious. And no, I’m sure that’s not what it’s supposed to smell like, but yes, it happened to turn my nose’s crank.
“I…uh…”
Hal picks up the black cloth napkin and fiddles with it, working it out of its neatly folded pleats. I’m slightly astonished when it dawns on me that he’s waiting for what I’m going to say, and he’s nervous about it. This might be the one time in all my life that I’ve seen Hal discomfited. He might have been in the past, but he’s always been able to keep his emotions close, whereas my brother is the exact opposite. My parents used to like the calming effect Hal had on Sam until they saw the light and realized Hal wasn’t calming at all. My brother was better able to regulate his emotions because they blew off so much steam together, getting into all sorts of trouble—ones my parents heard about fairly regularly. And not just when they were young. It continued all through high school as well. I felt sorry for mom and dad. They thought they’d be raising only one boy, and it turned out they had to sort of raise two. Not that they ever complained.
I did all the complaining for them—or to them, rather—since Sam and Hal were always doing something I didn’t like.
Tonight might be the first time I have no sour taste at the back of my throat when I think about all their pranks, mean boyishness, and big brother bullshit. I find myself biting down hard on my bottom lip—tasting pink strawberry lipstick—all to keep my lips from twitching their way into an amused smile.