A Song for Julia

cry out. I shouldn’t have said it. It was too soon, and I knew she wasn’t ready to hear that yet. But damn it. It was true.
    After a heart stopping few seconds, she looked back at me and gave me a small, tentative smile. “I’m not ready for that.”
    And then she opened the passenger side door and got out of the car and slammed the door shut.
    Damn it!
    I got out of the car. She’d left her coat in the car and stood there, shivering, her arms crossed over her chest. I couldn’t get over how breathtakingly beautiful she was. And though she’d opened up a lot, it still wasn’t hard to see the hurt underneath. I walked over to her. “All right. Let me revise. I think you’re wicked cool.”
    Her mouth quirked up on one side.
    “I also think it’s hot that you wear sexy clothes like this. I have this insatiable urge to reach around to that zipper in the back …”
    “Stop,” she said.
    I leaned close and whispered, “Can I just chew on your ear? Just a little nip at the earlobe?”
    “My parents can probably see us,” she replied, her voice almost at a whisper.
    “Let’s shock them,” I said.
    “Let’s go in where it’s warm.”
    I leaned back and winked at her. She burst into laughter and uncrossed her arms, so I took her hand in mine, and we walked into the restaurant.
    Okay. Definitely underdressed. I might have gotten away with the lack of tie, but my leather jacket, studded with spikes, band patches, chains embedded in the sleeves? Eyes all over the front of the restaurant darted in my direction when we walked in. The hostess, a thirtyish woman, looked at me with disapproval when we walked in. But she somehow smiled at Julia, who was standing maybe two inches from me. Go figure.
    “May I help you?”
    “Thompson party, please.”
    “This way,” she said. She led us to the back of the restaurant, to what appeared to be a private room. And then we walked into another world.
    Julia’s parents sat at opposite ends of a long table. Her father sat at the head of the table and was dressed in a tweed suit, with a vest. And a bow tie. I’m not kidding. He had a thick but well trimmed beard and salt and pepper hair, with fine creases, like crow’s feet, around his eyes. He stood when we entered, his eyes widening … no doubt in response to my appearance.
    Julia’s mother was at the foot of the table. She had long, luscious black hair and wore a dress not dissimilar to Julia’s. She stood as well, and both parents approached us from opposite ends of the table.
    As they approached, my eyes scanned the table. Two spots were open, directly next to her father’s seat. Obviously where Julia and I were intended to sit.
    Next to those spots, across from each other, were two of Julia’s sisters: a breathtaking girl, about eighteen, who also stood when we came in. She was easily six feet tall, with loose black hair almost to her waist, wearing a burgundy dress that highlighted her long, thin frame. Across from her was an eleven or twelve-year-old, still sitting, looking over the back of her chair at me with wide, almost alarmed eyes. Next to them, across from each other, were Julia’s twin sisters, about six years old. They looked nothing alike, one dark, and the other blonde. The youngest girl sat next to her mother. The young ones were looking at me like I’d been picked up in an alley behind the stadium, and they were worried I’d steal someone’s purse.
    That wasn’t so different from the mother’s expression. I decided to head that shit off by being as charming as possible. “Mrs. Thompson,” I said, reaching for her hand and smiling. “Now I know where Julia got her beauty. I’m Crank Wilson.”
    She smiled at me. “Crank,” she said. “What an intriguing name. This is my husband, Richard.”
    I shook hands with Julia’s father. He had a concerned expression on his face, his eyes mostly slipping to Julia.
    Julia and her mother kissed on the cheeks. It didn’t look very sincere.
    “Come have a seat,” Mr. Thompson said. “Dinner will be here shortly, we’re having a glass of wine.”
    I took the indicated seat, to Mr. Thompson’s right, next to the twelve-year-old.
    “Hello,” I said. “I’m Crank.”
    She grinned at me. “I’m Alexandra. Is your name really Crank? Or did you make that up?” I was surprised to see a glass of wine next to her plate. I’d always heard that was a European custom, and Julia’s family had spent most of their lives traveling. Go figure.