Page 8 of Meant to be Mine

She rubbed her hands together like she was preparing for battle. “Let’s do this.”

Walter smiled and led us toward a table set near the patio doors, pulling out chairs for both of us before signaling toward the kitchen. I sat down across from Kensey and thought, not for the first time today, that this was already shaping up to be a far better afternoon than I’d expected when I woke up this morning.

4

KENSEY

Isat down and put my hands in my lap like a good girl and told myself not to touch anything I didn’t have to.

Drew settled into the chair across from me like he’d been sitting at tables like this his entire life. Which, to be fair, he had. He picked up the menu card without a second thought, scanned it, set it down. Completely at ease.

He fit. His custom suit. Perfect hair. Handsome face. It was his scene.

I looked down at my shorts.

“Relax,” Drew said.

Of course he would know I was feeling self-conscious.

“I feel like I should be on the other side of this. Serving the food, not eating it.”

He frowned. “Why would you say that?”

“Because.” I gestured vaguely at the ocean, the linen, the crystal, all of it. “This is a lot, Drew. I know you’re used to it. But I’m a teacher in New Jersey. I live in a one-bedroom apartment and drive a piece of shit car.”

He leaned back in his chair. “You went to the same school I did.”

I traced the edge of the napkin with one finger. “As a scholarship kid. You know what it was like. Everybody’s parents had a lake house and a yacht and vacationed in France and Big Bear in the winter. I went back to my regular home and regular parents.”

Drew was quiet for a second. “I never saw you as someone who didn’t fit in.”

“I know.” I smiled at him across the table. “That’s why we’re still friends.”

“For the record, you belong anywhere you want to be.”

“That is a very sweet thing to say and also not how the world works.”

“Then the world is wrong.”

The chef came out. He introduced himself as Chef Dominic, shook Drew’s hand, nodded to me, and began explaining the first dish as two servers set small plates in front of each of us.

“Tuna tartare,” Chef Dominic said. “Ahi, sesame oil, avocado, micro greens, a light citrus vinaigrette. The acid cuts through the richness without overpowering the fish.” He paused, hands clasped.

Drew gave him an attentive nod. I gave him what I hoped was an equally attentive nod. I honestly had no idea what he said but it sounded good.

Chef Dominic retreated toward the kitchen doors, leaving us to it.

I picked up the small fork beside the plate. Took a bite. It was good. Really good, actually. The fish was cold and the citrus did exactly what he said it would.

“It’s tasty,” I said.

“But?” Drew was watching me.

“How did you know there was a but?”

“You made a small face.” He picked up his own fork. “What is it?”

I tried to find the right words. I didn’t know shit about food, but I knew what my tastebuds said. “It’s very delicate. Which is fine. But you’ve got people at this party in cocktail attire, standing up, mingling, holding drinks. And you want them to also be managing a fork and a little plate of raw fish?” I glanced toward the patio railing, imagining it filled with people. “Someone’s going to drop it on themselves. Someone in a white dress. Then there will be drama.”