Until the World Stops - L.A. Witt Page 0,40
my mouth watered. Hell yeah, this had been a good idea.
There were quite a few other cars in the parking lot, so Tristan moved the truck to a closed furniture store across the street where we wouldn’t be in anyone’s way. We rolled down the windows, and he shut off the truck as I started pulling containers out of the bag.
Neither of us touched our entrées—we went straight for the breadsticks.
“Holy fuck,” Tristan moaned around a bite of bread. “These are so good.”
“Mmhmm. Always are.” I would say this for the pandemic—it made a lot of everyday things ridiculously good. Warm Olive Garden breadsticks had always been awesome, but tonight, they were spectacular. The buttery, garlicky taste made me nostalgic for a time when life had been normal, and it also reminded me of when someone shared an edible care package on deployment. When you were on a ship or in the middle of a warzone, there really was nothing quite like biting into an asymmetrical chocolate chip cookie that someone’s mom had baked. Nothing except, apparently, that first bite of a warm Olive Garden breadstick in the middle of a pandemic that had turned the world on its head.
Or maybe I was being dramatic. I don’t know. It just tasted amazing, and it made me feel less like everything was crumbling around me, so whatever.
After a couple of breadsticks, I finally opened the lid on my entrée. “Oh, yeah. Come to Daddy.”
Tristan laughed, but it faded to a happy moan as he opened his own entrée. We’d both gone for the Tour of Italy—lasagna, chicken parmesan, and fettucine alfredo—reasoning that there’d be enough for dinner tonight and leftovers tomorrow. It didn’t have to be top of the line Michelin-starred cuisine. After the past God-knew-how-long of fast food and the few recipes we each knew how to make, it was some ridiculously fragrant food that someone else had cooked and covered in melted cheese. Fucking perfect.
Tristan balanced the container against the steering wheel and cut off a piece of lasagna with his plastic fork. “I think the last time I went to an Olive Garden was on a date.”
“Yeah? Pfft. None of my dates ever took me to Olive Garden.”
He glanced at me, a lopsided grin on his lips. “I thought you didn’t date.”
“Okay, fine. None of my hookups ever brought me Olive Garden.”
Tristan laughed. “Those bastards.”
“I know, right?” I twirled some fettucine noodles around my fork. “But don’t tell my parents, since they think you made an honest man out of me.”
He snorted. So did I.
“Honest man.” He took a bite of lasagna. “Whatever you say, dude.”
“Hey!” But I was laughing. “And hey, we sold the story. My mom told me the other day she’s so glad I settled down before this happened. Otherwise I’d be completely on my own.”
As he chewed, he seemed to consider it. After he took a swig of raspberry lemonade, he said, “She’s not wrong. I mean, I was living alone in a room in someone’s house before we, uh…”
“Before we got married?”
“Yep. That. Thank God I got out of there before…” He flailed a hand at the windshield as if to indicate all the chaos in the world.
“Good point. My place wasn’t too bad, but I like where we’re living better.”
We glanced at each other. I wondered if he could hear the unspoken I’m glad I’m not living alone through this in my words just like I could hear it in his. For all the tension before the pandemic, it was damn good to have him around these days.
We continued eating, and after a while, Tristan said, “Okay, speaking of the whole hooking up instead of dating thing…” He cocked his head. “Feel free to tell me if it’s none of my business, but is dating just not your thing?”
“It’s…” I absently twirled some more noodles on my fork, then laid the fork down and leaned my head back against the seat. “It’s not that I’m against it, it’s just not what I want right now. I like playing the field. I don’t even know where I want to live or what I want to do after I retire, and I want that freedom to find my own way.” Chuckling dryly, I picked up my fork again. “I’m definitely not ready to settle down the way my mom wants me to.”
“Oh. So you’re not, like, aromantic or anything. It’s just not the right time.”
“Definitely not aromantic.” I ate some of the pasta, then,