Page 75 of Pity Play

“It’s nothing like beef liver,” I tell her. Picking up the dulled knife on the plate, I dab some of the pâté onto the toast before adding a small spoonful of the marmalade. I hand it to her. “Try it.”

She hesitantly brings it up to her nose before taking a tentative bite. Her expression shifts from being doubtful to downright joyous. “Yum! It’s earthy but kind of sweet at the same time.”

Making myself a toast point, I tell her, “You only need one or two of these because it’s rich, but it really is the perfect way to start a meal.”

After eating two apiece in relative silence—we’re both thoroughly engrossed in our food—the waiter comes back. He places a small plate in front of each of us. “Warm goat cheese salad on abed of butter lettuce with dried cranberries, toasted pine nuts, and a honey and shallot vinaigrette.”

“I’ve died and gone to heaven,” Lorelai declares. “Pretend you don’t notice if I get up and take my belt off.”

I love how easily she can joke about herself. Most women would be too worried their date would think they were fat if they made a comment like that. Although, I suppose we’re not really on a date, more’s the pity.

Maybe that’s why Lorelai can make fun so easily. Because she thinks of me like she does a brother. But then I remember that kiss from last week and know that can’t be true.

Speaking of her brother, I ask, “Is Noah coming back before your parents sell the house?”

“He has to pick up all his stuff,” she tells me. “But I don’t think he’ll stay for long. He’s definitely not a small-town guy.”

“I bet you could have some fun redesigning his apartment for him,” I tell her. “Noah’s space is nice, but the décor resembles what you’d think it would look like if a squatter had taken up residence.”

“It’s his use of take-out containers and piles of dirty clothes,” she laughs. “He’s been decorating with both for as long as I’ve known him.”

After several minutes, the waiter returns with our entrées, interrupting our conversation. “For you, the filet mignon with a truffle sauce,” he says, placing the plate in front of Lorelai. “And for you, sir, the duck confit.”

“Thank you,” I tell him, but my focus is entirely on Lorelai. She’s beaming at her meal, her eyes sparkling in the candlelight. It’s all I can do not to reach across the table and touch her.

“This is perfect," she says, her voice almost a purr.

“Maybe we can share.”

She lowers her eyes coyly. “It’s like you can read my mind.”

“Maybe I can,” I reply, trying to keep my tone light, but I can feel the tension tightening around us. Her comment about readingminds feels loaded, making me wonder if she knows just how often she’s on my mind.

As we begin eating, the conversation flows easily, yet the air between us buzzes with unspoken words. I steal glances at her, captivated by the way she savors each bite, her lips parting slightly, her lashes brushing her cheeks as she closes her eyes in appreciation.

“You have a little sauce,” I say, pointing to the corner of my own mouth to show her where. Without hesitation, she dips her napkin in water and wipes at the spot delicately.

“Better?” she asks, her voice soft, full of a playful challenge.

“Perfect,” I whisper, feeling the electricity crackle between us.

The rest of the meal continues in this charged atmosphere, each brush of our hands as we reach for our glasses, each shared smile, intensifying the connection. By the time the dessert arrives— a decadent chocolate mousse—I'm almost dizzy from the heady mix of food, wine, and her nearness.

As we dig into the dessert, she looks at me, her gaze steady. “You know, if we keep eating like this, we might have to start running marathons.”

“Are you a runner, too?” I ask.

With a small shake of her head, she answers, “Not unless you’re chasing me with a butcher’s knife with an intent to use it.”

“Then we’ll have to come up with another way to work off our meal.” I belatedly realize my comment may have sounded a little R-rated, so I clarify, “We could find a dog to walk.”

“Or,” she counters, “we could just enjoy the moment and worry about the repercussions later.”

Her smile is slow and knowing. As we savor the last bites, the tension transforms, morphing into something deeper, something undeniable. The waiter clears the plates, and for a moment, we just sit there, the weight of the unspoken hanging in the air between us.

I want to tell Lorelai how much I like her; how much I would like to date her for real, but considering her past feelings, I knowthat wouldn’t be fair. She’s made it clear she’s never going to leave Elk Lake, so there’s no point in making our inevitable goodbye harder than it will already be.

Lorelai breaks the tension by raising her hand to get the waiter’s attention. When he comes over, she says, “I’ll take the check.”

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