“Where are we going?” I ask.
Luke gives me a strange look. “My car. I parked in the garage.”
“Your car?” I say. “You drive?”
He narrows his eyes at me. “Don’t look so astonished.”
I wince. Luke is my new boss, and right now, I’m batting zero. I’ll be lucky if he hasn’t fired me by the end of this lunch. “I just… I thought you would have, you know, a driver or something.”
“Well,” he says, “I don’t.”
I watch Luke push himself out of the elevator, trying to figure how he’s going to be able to drive a car. I mean, obviously people with disabilities can drive. But how can he do it with limited hand function?
Luke’s car is a sleek black Tesla, parked in one of the handicapped spots right near the entrance to the garage. It’s probably the most expensive car in the lot—not that I’m surprised. He hooks his fingers into the handle of the driver’s side door, fumbling to get it open, and I blurt out, “Do you need any help?”
Luke freezes and stares up at me. “Excuse me?”
I’m blushing so hard, even my toes must be red. I need to stop talking completely. “I mean—”
He folds his arms across his chest. “What? You think I need help getting into my own car?”
“No,” I say quickly.
He arches an eyebrow. “You think I would drive myself to work without any way of getting myself back in the car to leave?”
“No. Of course not.”
“Well, you just said that.”
He’s got me there. He’s as good at beating me an argument as he was back in college. Thankfully, he shakes his head and doesn’t press the matter further.
He climbs into the car without too much trouble, as it turns out. I watch as he lifts himself from his wheelchair into the front seat—first his body, then he pulls his legs along with him. Then he pops the wheels off his chair and tosses them behind him into the back seat. I get in beside him and do my best not to stare.
As he starts up the car, I notice he’s slouching a bit. In college, Luke used to have a ramrod-straight spine, to the point where I felt like I could put a book on his head in the morning and it would still be there in the evening. But now it’s like he has no muscles at all in his trunk. I can tell he’s aware of it because he frequently pushes his hand against his thigh to straighten himself out. Although to be honest, he may still have better posture than me.
It must kill him to know he’s not perfect anymore. Maybe that’s why he’s so cold now. Heartless.
He places his right hand on what seems to be an accelerator of some sort. There’s no hesitation in his movements—he’s very comfortable driving using his arms. He looks more comfortable than I do when I get behind the wheel in this city.
It takes me a few minutes to realize we’re heading in the direction of the North End. He’s doing a good job maneuvering through the disarray of the streets of Boston. And by “good,” I mean he’s aggressive as hell. Let me tell you something about Boston drivers: They’re insane. I grew up in Jersey and I thought they were insane over there, but Boston is a million times worse. The streets of Boston make absolutely no sense: streets change names, zig-zag, and do all kinds of things, and it makes the people who drive here lose their freaking minds.
“Where are we going?” I ask.
“It’s an Italian restaurant,” he says. “Rosita’s.”
“Have you been there before?”
“Yes.”
“Is… is it any good?”
He skids to a halt at a red light. “Do you think I’m taking you to a restaurant I think is bad?”
“No.” Oh God, I can’t believe how badly I’m screwing this up. “Sorry, I just… Sorry.”
We spend the rest of the drive in silence. Anytime I get the urge to say anything, I bite down on my tongue. Hard.
Luke pulls into the small parking lot of an expensive-looking Italian restaurant. I’m about to point out to him that the lot is full, which was always an issue when I went to the North End in the past, but then I realize that, of course, he can park in the handicapped spot.
“Okay,” he says as he kills the engine. “You can pry your fingers off the dashboard now.”
I laugh like he made a joke, but he’s not smiling. Admittedly, I’m a bit shaky as I climb out of the car. You have to be an aggressive driver if you live in Boston, but there were a few times when I saw my life flashing before my eyes.
Without thinking, I start up the steps to the front door. I hear Luke clear his throat loudly, and I turn around. He’s sitting in his chair, at the foot of the stairs. “Eleanor,” he says.
I grip the railing of the steps. “Oh. Uh… do you need…?”
“There’s a ramp around the side,” he says.
“Right.” I swallow hard. “Sorry.”
I can’t believe I was so thoughtless. Obviously, he can’t get up the stairs. Usually, I’m pretty sensitive to other people’s emotions—I can always tell when somebody’s having a bad day. But Luke is throwing me off my game big time. I hate the fact that I want so badly to impress him. And not just because he’s my boss.
He pushes himself up the ramp to the entrance, and we go inside together. This Italian restaurant doesn’t quite look like a place where you would have a business lunch. It’s a little too dark. A little too romantic. And definitely very expensive.
“Kind of dark, isn’t it?” I say with a forced smile.
Luke frowns. “Dark?”
“Like… it’s not…” I squeeze my hands together. “It’s hard to see. You know?”
He stares up at me, like I’ve said something too stupid to respond to. Which I suppose is fair.
He made reservations and the hostess leads us to our table, which has got to be the most secluded table in the whole damn restaurant. It occurs to me that this is the closest thing I’ve had to a date in about six months, and that is so sad, I almost want to cry.
We’ve been seated for less than a minute when a waiter dashes over to our table. “May I offer you a drink?”
“I’ll have a glass of pinot noir,” Luke says.
I know having a glass of wine at lunch isn’t a big deal, but I feel like it’s important to have complete control of my senses now. Plus, I’m a lightweight and even one glass of wine is liable to alter my judgment.
“I’ll have a ginger ale,” I say.
Luke stares at me again. I desperately wish I could take back my order, but the waiter has already dashed off to bring our drinks.
“Ginger ale?” he repeats. “That’s what you want?”
“I’m not a big drinker,” I say defensively.
I pick up my menu and study it intently, avoiding his gaze. But when I lift my eyes, I see he’s watching me.
“You know,” he says, “they don’t have any Happy Meals on there, if that’s what you’re looking for.”
Oh God. This is not going well.
The prices in this restaurant are horrifying. I don’t think I’ve ever seen food this expensive before. I end up ordering a salad, because I just can’t bring myself to order a chicken breast that costs forty bucks. He orders a steak, which costs slightly less than my rent.