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I’d found it by chance and I wasn’t put off by the shabby exterior or the initially rude staff.
“Polly!” Lukas exclaimed as I woodenly followed Heath in.
Heath had dumped his phone in the bucket by the door.
I had done the same.
It was half full.
And somehow, no one ever took something that wasn’t theirs. It was part of the charm of this place. It was a little pocket of something, just like our loft had been. A little pocket where greed and image didn’t creep in. Somehow couldn’t.
I hadn’t taken Craig here.
For whatever reason.
Lukas yanked me into a warm hug. He smelled of garlic and olive oil. Of comfort.
He’d been rude to me on my first visit. They were rude to everyone on their first visit. It wasn’t a case of the customer being impressed enough to come back. It was a place where you had to impress Lukas enough to let you come back.
He didn’t invite food critics. He told everyone to sign a verbal contract saying they weren’t some kind of “hipster food blogger.”
It shouldn’t have worked since the food was out of this world, Lukas was amazing—once he approved you, of course—welcoming and one of the best chefs (and people) in the world.
“We haven’t seen you in a year,” he exclaimed. “I was worried about you. Was going to call your sister!” He was holding me at arm’s length and yelling like he did when he was happy. Or angry. “But of course, I told my Maria you’d be out adventuring, exploring the world.” His eyes went to Heath. Then to me. “Ah,” he said, quiet, almost a whisper.
Lukas didn’t whisper.
“You did a different kind of exploring,” he said, voice still soft.
“No,” I said quickly, not able to have this man think of Heath and I like that. I’d never be able to come back here.
“Thank you, Lukas,” Heath interrupted me. “You know Polly, she’s got about a thousand places to be and she needs fuel.”
I was jolted at the familiarity in Heath’s voice and the fact he didn’t seem to want Lukas to know that we weren’t what he thought we were.
Lukas nodded rapidly, grinning. “Of course, of course.” He looked up. “You!” He pointed to a couple that were just getting their drinks. “You move, over there.” He was pointing to the only other free table in the joint.
Free only because it was slightly dark and closest to the restrooms.
“But—” the man began to argue, betraying the fact it was his first visit.
“But nothing!” Lukas yelled. “You wanna eat, you move.”
No one else at the other tables looked up from their food. Obviously all regulars. Most people were regulars.
The couple moved.
Lukas clapped his hands. “Right. One vegetarian. One meat. Sit. Sit. I’ll bring drinks.”
He rushed us to the newly vacated table.
There were no menus.
You told your waiter about allergies—“real ones, none of that gluten-free bullshit”—and vegetarianism and they gave you food. Whatever Lukas decided to cook that night.
And whatever it was was mind-blowing.
Sometimes it was Tagine.
Or moussaka.
Or Irish stew.
You would never know, but you would never be disappointed.
One of the things I loved the most about this place was that every single table was talking to the people surrounding them. They were engaged. Present.
Because everyone’s phones were in a bucket at the front door.
It was rare, almost impossible to truly enjoy a meal, good company with just the people in front of you. You were always competing with whoever was more important on the screen of a phone.
Craig had never been separated from his phone. But his work, which I didn’t know much about, required him to be ‘accessible.’ Being accessible to everyone else meant that he was inaccessible to me.
Heath had never glanced at his phone.
Even when I wished he would, wished he’d stop giving me so much of his empty attention.
So yes, it was one of the things I loved about this place.
Until now.
Because I wished there was something here to connect us to the world, disconnect us from each other.
But we were already disconnected.
Because Heath didn’t speak.
Didn’t make an effort to do so.
No small talk.
No polite mutterings.
Nothing.
Because it was all or nothing with us.
I’d made sure all wasn’t an option.
“You come here?” I asked when I couldn’t stand the silence and the chill in one of the loudest and warmest places in L.A.
Heath nodded.
“Since when?”
His eyes hadn’t left mine since we sat down. “Since I got back.”
“Why?” I whispered.
He was silent for so long I didn’t think he was going to answer.
“Was trying to keep something alive,” he said finally. “Trying to kill some other things.”
Don’t cry, I commanded.
Because I couldn’t stand the thought of Heath, emerging from the war, damaged, tortured and alone, coming to the place I’d told him about while we were naked and in each other’s arms.
We didn’t speak for the rest of the meal.
