Julius is out of the car and at my door within seconds. He holds my hand while we jaywalk across the street, dodging oncoming traffic and maneuvering our way toward a restaurant.
“You’re taking me to a pizza parlor?” The question comes out of my mouth ruder than how it sounded in my head. “I’m sorry,” I say as I tug his hand to get him to stop before we go inside. “That came out wrong.”
“It’s fine,” he tells me. “This is my favorite place, especially when I have the kids, which is normally all the time. I just thought . . .” Julius pauses, his face scrunches up in thought, and then says, “We can go someplace else. You’re right. This shouldn’t be our first dinner date.”
He starts to walk away, but I hold my ground. “No, this is perfect, and it’s the place you wanted to bring me. I was caught off guard, is all. Do they have a salad bar?”
He nods. “One of the best around. They also have a fire truck.”
“I’m sorry, what?” I ask, trying to hold back my laughter.
Julius shrugs and opens the door for me. He follows behind me until we get to the host stand and tells the young man we need a table near the fire truck.
“Is this a real—” my words are cut off by the sight of a full-sized fire truck parked in the middle of the room. “Wow, can’t say I’ve seen one up close before.”
“You can climb on it, if you want.”
Oddly, I do want to. “Fascinating.”
The host shows us to our seat, which is two tables away from the truck. It’s nice, but not as intimate as I hoped. But then again, it’s pizza. As soon as I look at the menu, a waiter sets two glasses of water down and asks what we’d like to drink. I’m taken back by Julius when he stays with water. I do the same. Our waiter tells us to help ourselves to the salad bar, which I happily do.
I’m digging into my leafy concoction when Julius asks if I like arcade games. With my hand over my mouth, I nod and try to swallow quickly so that I can talk to him.
“I’m a beast at air hockey.”
“I’m the champ,” he says as he flexes.
“Is that a challenge, Mr. Cunningham?”
“It is, Weather Girl.” Normally, this irritates me, but the nickname has grown on me. But only if it’s Julius saying it.
“I’ll take this challenge, but after we eat because I’m starving,” I say as the waiter sets our pizza down. I reach for the serving utensil, pull a slice of pizza up, and put it onto one of the plates. I hand this to Julius, who looks at me in surprise. “What? Do you want another slice?”
“No.” He shakes his head slowly. “I didn’t expect you to plate my food for me.”
“Why not?”
Julius shrugs and says nothing, making me assume his ex didn’t do things like this. My mother always plates our food. It’s her thing. I suppose I learned it from her.
We eat mostly in silence, and every now again, I find myself staring off into space or losing my thoughts while watching kids climb on and off the fire truck. Julius keeps his head down, and I wonder if it’s because he’s afraid someone will recognize him or if he’s deep in thought. Under the table, we play footsie, and every so often, we hold hands across the table.
When we’ve finished off the pie, more so, when Julius has finished it, he asks me to follow him. Once again, he takes my hand, and I fall in line behind him. He walks us toward another room, one filled with young adults and kids. There are very few people our age here.
“Oh good, the table is free.”
With a slight roll of my eyes, I let go of his hand and head to the end of the table. I have to inspect my mallet and make sure there aren’t any obstructions on the bottom. The table comes to life, and the puck starts moving slowly.
“You should start,” he says.
“Nah, I think I’ll be okay.” I’m confident in my game and push the red puck toward Julius. He eyes me, maybe with caution or trying to figure out if I’m bluffing.
We start, and the clanking of the puck grows incessantly. Neither of us has scored, but it isn’t for lack of trying. Every angle I hit, he blocks, and when he tries to speed the game up, I slow him down. Then he tries to do the same, and I reverse things on him and return my shots as hard as I can and as rapidly as possible. When the puck finally slips between his mallet and the goal, my hands go up.