Page 34 of Que Será, Syrah

I nod in a noncommittal sort of way; but I’m not sure I agree with that. There’s a lot of money involved, a lot of potential fines, a lot of unpleasant consequences. None of that says petty to me. “Well, I appreciate the insight,” I tell her, in as diplomatic a fashion as I can manage. “And if you learn anything more, I hope you’ll share it with me. But it’s still my job to follow up on all the complaints I receive. So...”

“I know.” She smiles ruefully. “It’s frustrating all the way around. But don’t you think it’s in everyone’s best interests if we can all at least accept that we’re on the same side?”

“I hear you. But I think that sounds…” My voice trails off. Far-fetched, unlikely naïve, and possibly completely without merit. “Very tolerant of you,” I say at last.

Legs blinks in surprise. “Not really. Not unless it turns out that my cousins are right about you.”

“In what way?” I’m startled into asking.

“Well, one school of that says that the only reason you stopped me and impounded my car is because of who I am, because of the family connection.”

For an instant, I’m struck speechless. Because that’s uncomfortably close to the truth. “I stopped you because of how you were driving,” I say, focusing on the first half of her accusation. “I was worried you’d cause an accident. I had no idea who you were at that point.”

“I know,” she sighs. “My sisters keep reminding me of that, too.”

“Well, you brought it up,” I point out as I pick up my last taco and take a big bite. Legs finishes her wine and asks our server for some sparkling water. We both agree to take a look at the dessert menu and then move on to other topics.

“You know,” Legs says somewhat hesitantly, scratching at the tablecloth with the edge of her thumbnail—an odd sort of tell, and an unfortunate one, since it immediately has me remembering what her nails felt like digging into my skin. “It feels weird having to bring this up at this point, but I still don’t know what your name is

“Not that weird. It’s probably a good thing,” I say, which is also unfortunate, because of course she asks the obvious question.

“Oh? Why’s that?”

“Ah, you know. I don’t really like my name, so why would I want to share it?”

Unfortunately, I can’t remember if I told her my name the night we met. There’d have been no reason not to—then. Now…maybe I don’t want her to connect the dots. Maybe I’m hoping that she’s thought about me, over the years, as much as I’ve thought about her. Which is unlikely as fuck, seeing as she apparently had no reservations about jetting off to Europe, just days later, and ghosting me. Maybe I’d rather stay a mystery.

But she’s eyeing me with sympathy now and nodding her head. “Yeah, I get that. It’s the same for me and my sisters. None of us like our names. That’s how we ended up giving each other nicknames that we use more than our actual names. Well, not Rosa, so much, but Bee and I for sure do.”

“It’s not the same,” I tell her. “And anyway, I think Allegra’s a beautiful name.”

“Thank you. It’s okay on its own, I guess. But paired with Martinelli, it’s just too much. Too many ells, and people are forever misspelling it. But I suspect you’re deflecting. Which is cool, and all. But there has to be something I can call you other than Deputy.”

“Well, sure,” I say, finding a brief respite in my beer. “I mean, if Deputy’s too long, you could always just call me Sir.”

The look of shock and outrage that sweeps over her face, has me laughing. “Kidding,” I say as I hold up my hands in a gesture of peace. “But, you know, most people just use my last name.”

Her lips roll in and it occurs to me that suggesting she’s ‘most people’ might not sit well with her, either. But after a moment she nods and shrugs and I’m fool enough to think I’ve dodged that bullet. Our server returns and we order—decaf coffee and pumpkin flan for her, a French apple tart with a locally produced Cheddar cheese, and another beer for me.

Once we’re alone again, Legs takes a sip of sparkling water and says, “So, fine. I guess I’ll just go on calling you Romero—like everyone else does.” She smiles sweetly and adds, “And I’m sure I’ll remember to use that second R most of the time.”

I laugh and bury my head in my hands. “I should have seen that coming, shouldn’t I?”

“Yes. Probably. You don’t seem unintelligent, after all.”

Right. That, too. But mostly because she could never, ever be like ‘most people’. Whatever was I thinking? “Fine. You win. My name is Clay. Happy now?”

“Ecstatic,” she assures me. She’s quiet for a moment. I watch as her eyes drift to the right, as though she’s imagining—as I suddenly am—how my name would sound emerging from her lips in a whisper, or a shout, or a mindless, repetitive chant. I belatedly slam the lid on all that conjecture when I realize that all the scenarios, I’m imagining are sexual in nature. From the flush on her cheeks, I wonder if she was doing the same.

“I don’t know why you don’t like your name,” she says, hurrying into speech. “I- I think it’s a good name. It’s solid, easy to remember; it’s short… Ohhh.” She leans in suddenly, her eyes wide as she covers one of my hands with hers. “Is that the problem? Is it short for something long and horrible?”

“Like what?” I ask, distracted by the press of her hands on mine, by the internal struggle that’s demanding that I move—either turn my hand to grasp hers, or pull my hand away. Neither seems optimal, so I force myself to not react.

“Well, I don’t know,” she’s saying. “Claymore? Or…whatever else it’s short for. Clayville? Claybourgh? Claynaught?”

“God, no. It’s not short for anything,” I say as I solve my hand problem by sitting back in my chair, folding my arms and glaring with mock outrage. “Claynaught? Really? That’s just obnoxious.”

She grins unrepentantly back at me. “So then, I guess it’s gotta be spelled weird.”

---