The Ex by Freida McFadden(11)

“Cassie,” Joel says, a grin spreading across his face when he sees her. “Are you ready?”

And then he pulls a rose out from behind his back. An honest-to-God rose. That’s a new one—none of the guys in their mid-twenties would ever show up with a rose. “Oh,” she gasps.

He hands it to her, and again, their fingers brush against each other. And again, she gets that tingle. “I wasn’t sure what kind of flowers you like, so…”

“I like roses,” she says. Grandpa Marv used to present fresh flowers to Grandma Bea every single week for the duration of their marriage, and she used to put them in the window of the store. But after Grandpa Marv died, there were never flowers in the store again. “Thank you. And you’re right on time.”

He nods. “I got here a little early, but I figured you were still working so I’ve been… uh, circling the block.” He rubs at the back of his neck. “And now I wish I hadn’t told you that.”

She laughs. “I’ll forget I heard it.”

“Would you?”

Cassie glances at Zoe who is rolling her eyes. “Thanks again for locking up, Zoe. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Have fun, you two.” Zoe leans back in her seat and flashes her teeth at them. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do. And I mean that, because if I wouldn’t do it, it’s got to be some really bad shit.”

Cassie has no doubt that’s true.

The sun is just starting to set when they get outside the bookstore. Cassie loves this time in the fall, when the oppressive heat and humidity of the summer has finally let up, but it’s still warm enough to get away with a dress and no jacket in the evening. A gentle breeze lifts the dark strands of hair from her neck. They stroll down the block, and she’s unsure of the destination. They texted a few times, and he mentioned the possibility of Indian food, but now she thinks the heavy, creamy Indian dishes she usually likes would make her feel bloated and unattractive.

“Where are we going?” she asks him.

“Punjab Café is just down the block,” he says.

“Actually,” she says, “what about Giotto’s? That Italian place two blocks uptown?”

His eyes darken, almost imperceptibly. “I don’t really like Italian food.”

“Oh.” Cassie wants to be agreeable, but in her head, a red flag goes up. Who doesn’t like Italian food? American cuisine is so entangled with Italian that he may as well say he doesn’t like food. “What about sushi?”

His shoulders sag in relief. “That sounds good.”

“But we can’t get anything with peanuts,” she says. “I’m allergic.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Itchy rash allergic? Or bells and whistles to the hospital allergic?”

“Used to be bells and whistles,” she says. “It’s not as bad anymore. If it’s a tiny amount of peanut, I’m fine, but my throat closes if it’s too much.”

“Do you carry an epi-pen?”

“Yes, of course,” she says, although as she says the words, she’s not entirely sure. Is it still in her purse? It’s been so long since she’s had an anaphylactic reaction that she’s almost forgotten about it. Maybe she’s not even allergic anymore.

As they walk to the sushi bar, Cassie worries about the price tag on this meal. She can’t afford a sushi dinner. She can barely afford ramen noodles. On dates in the past, she’s always insisted on covering her half of the check—it’s a pride thing. But God knows what the check will amount to in a decent sushi restaurant.

But when Joel smiles at her, she decides not to worry about it.

As soon as Cassie walks into the small Japanese restaurant, she sees a conveyor belt carrying small plates of food past customers sitting in cozy booths and larger tables. Zoe had mentioned there was a conveyor belt sushi place nearby, but this is the first time she’s ever tried it. She and Joel snag a booth where a train of sushi plates travels past them, tantalizing them with California rolls and sashimi hidden under glass covers. Cassie watches the plates go by as they wait for their waters.

“I love the concept of conveyer belt food,” she says.

“I agree,” Joel says. “All food should be available this way.”

“Little cheeseburgers, traveling by on a conveyer belt,” she muses.

“Four little buffalo wings.”

“A handful of French fries.”

“Six onion rings.”

“I think I should close the bookstore,” Cassie says, “and open up a conveyer belt everything restaurant.”

He grins at her and she swoons a bit. “Brilliant.”

She’s only partially kidding. She suspects she’d make more money if she did so.

“The salmon plates are discounted.” She studies the menu. “Only three dollars a plate! That’s a great deal.”

A waiter comes by to deposit two glasses of water on the table. Cassie notices his glass has a suspicious smudge on it, which makes her worry about the quality of the raw fish, but she decides to live dangerously. She’s yet to have food poisoning during her time living in Manhattan, which makes her think she may have developed a tolerance to the particular bacteria that inhabit the restaurants and food carts sprinkling the city.