Page 25 of When Lemons Give You Life

“I wouldn’t care anyway.” He winks as he switches our plates.

My heart leaps. I spear a ravioli and pop it cautiously onto my tingling tongue.

“Is it okay?”

“It’s perfect, thanks.” Oh god, I’ve just spoken with food in my mouth. How many strikes can I get on a first date? I swallow, quickly adding, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to talk with my mouth full!”

“Don’t be,” Frank says through half-chewed strands of linguine. “I love eating and I love talking. I don’t know who made the rule that you can’t do both at the same time, but I think it’s silly.”

A piece of prawn falls out of his mouth on the last word. He catches it and pops it back in, then bursts into snorts of laughter, cupping his hand over his lips. He tries to take a sip of wine, but the giggles keep coming and the wine ends up shooting out of his nose.

It’s one of the grossest things I’ve ever seen, but I’m in stitches.

“Oh dear,” Frank gasps. “What a prawn I am.” That sets him off again—shoulders shaking, nose scrunched, face buried in his hands.

The diners around us have begun to stare. The woman with the debatably shaved legs shakes her head in disapproval. A man two tables over rolls his eyes with a theatrical sigh.

I catch the waiter’s glance—his shoulders are tight, eyes flicking anxiously around the room. I clear my throat and raise my voice. “Sorry, everyone! We’re on a first date, and apparently we’re both terrible at it.”

A few people chuckle. The tension breaks. Even the waiter lets out a relieved smile.

Frank watches me, still wheezing, his expression soft and admiring.

“Crisis management,” I say, grinning. “One of my few skills.”

The waiter tops up our water, and we drink, finally catching our breath. “Were you close to your dad, Frank?”

“Very. My brother was too, but when the cancer progressed and Dad lost his memory, he stopped visiting. Said there was no point—Dad wouldn’t even know. You can see why he’s a bumface.”

My hand inches forward, but I quickly retract it, fiddling with my napkin. “I’m sorry. Griff’s forgotten me too, I think.”

Frank nods, his fingers creeping closer.

“What was the place like?” I ask. “Where your dad was?”

“Nicer than the shithole, that’s for sure.”

“I’ll bet! Did you ever work there?”

“Yep, when Dad moved in. That’s how I got into music therapy.”

“Amazing what the mind can hold on to. I’ve been trying to play for Griff.”

“You play guitar?” He leans forward eagerly.

“Ukulele. Self-taught from YouTube. I play for Griff sometimes. If your music’s penicillin, mine’s probably more like a laxative!”

“So, moving in its own way then?” He smirks.

“Ha! I suppose so.”

“Were you close with Griff?”

My smile slips away. “No. I see him more now than I did before he got sick. He wasn’t a great big brother. I think I mentioned he’s my half-brother?”

Frank nods.

“We have different fathers, and he and my dad didn’t get along. Griff pushed us away.”