Double Shots, Donuts, And Dead Dudes

“Franny!”

My boyfriend’s voice came booming up the stairs to my bedroom.

“I’ll be down in a minute!” I called back.

“What’s taking so long? We’re just going to Fiesta Mexicana.”

“I know.”

I heard him sigh from down the stairs. “I guess I’ll take Latte out. Again.”

“Thank you,” I chirped as merrily as I could. I really was taking an eternity. I knew that. But Matt had been working late so much over the past few weeks. We’d barely had any time to spend together. I was excited that we were finally getting a date night, and I wanted to look pretty for it. And pretty was taking a while.

I’d at least gotten my makeup worked out—a shopping trip had me armed with all new eye makeup that the salesgirl had assured me was “perfect” for my “gorgeous” eyes. While I wasn’t sure I agreed with her basic premise—that my eyes were so outstandingly stunning—I had to admit the products she’d sold me made me look like I had two brilliant-blue spotlights glowing out of my head. With that kind of effect, it didn’t take much more than a dab of nude lipstick to finish my makeup. My hair was a different matter though.

For probably the fiftieth time, I ran my fingers through my hair, flipped it in front of my shoulders, then back. It just wasn’t cooperating. Over the course of my efforts, it had been as fluffy as a shower poof, as flat as a pancake, and once, briefly, some horrible combination of the two. At the moment, it looked almost like someone had plopped a black mop on my head. I sighed. I needed a haircut. I’d been back in my hometown a little over six months now and still hadn’t found a stylist I liked.

The door downstairs opened, announcing that Latte was done outside and Matt was ready to resume waiting for me. I looked at myself in the mirror and resigned myself to going on our date with gorgeous makeup and terrible hair.

“Franny!” Matt was just starting to call as I reached the top of the stairs. My name caught in his throat.

“What?” I asked as I started down the stairs. Was my hair really that bad?

“You look—wow—you look—wow,” Matt stammered.

“Good wow or bad wow?” The words were barely out of my mouth when he took my face in his hands and kissed me. “I guess it was a good wow,” I said when he finally pulled away.

He nodded and kissed me again.

“You have lipstick all over your—”

“I don’t care.” He kissed me again. “Are you sure you want to go out tonight? We could just stay home, order in—”

“I didn’t go to all this trouble just to order in,” I said, though the idea was tempting.

“Wow,” he said again with a slightly dazed look on his face.

I punched his chest. “Let’s go. I’m hungry.”

He kissed me again. “You sure you don’t want to wait?”

“I haven’t eaten since this morning.”

“So, what’s another hour?”

As if on cue, my stomach grumbled loud enough that I was glad I wasn’t in a public place. Latte, perched comfortably on the couch, cocked his head at the noise.

“Well, okay then!” Matt laughed, his warm brown eyes crinkling at the corners in a way that made me melt. I almost considered staying in after all, but another gurgle from my stomach reminded me that would be a bad idea. Matt took my coat off its hook and helped me into it, which was good because I was starting to get a little lightheaded from hunger. “Are you ready, my lady?” he asked, extending his arm to me in a charmingly old-fashioned way.

I slipped my arm through his. “I am indeed.”

“Then let’s be off!” He drew a treat out of his pocket and tossed it to Latte, who caught it with only the slightest movement of his head. “Be good, dog!”

“‘Be good, dog?’” I repeated as he opened the door.

He shrugged with a lopsided grin. “Yeah, why not?”

I laughed and called out to my dog, trying to keep my voice from descending into full-on baby-talk territory, “Be good, Latte! Mommy loves you!”

“Oh, so that’s how you’re supposed to do it.”

“Sure is,” I said as I stepped out the door.

He pulled it closed behind us and started leading me to the driveway, but I hesitated to step off the front step.

“What?” he asked.

“I need to lock it,” I replied, confused about why he was confused.

“I locked the handle.” He reached back and wiggled it to prove his point.

“But, the deadbolt—”

He raised an eyebrow at me. “It’s Cape Bay, Franny.”

“It’s Cape Bay” was pretty much the standard response whenever I commented on anyone not locking their doors (even just the handle) or their cars. Or—my favorite—leaving their keys in the ignition. It was a typical small-town attitude, but I’d spent over ten years living in New York City before moving back home, and I still hadn’t gotten used to how laid back everyone was about security. Aside from a handful of murders over the past few months, crime was pretty low in our little beach town—especially in the off-season, like it was now, when there were no hordes of tourists roaming around.

I sighed and reluctantly walked with Matt toward his car, which was currently parked in my driveway. “Did you at least lock the back door?”

“Yeah.” He paused for a second. “At least I think so.”

“You think so?” I turned to go back toward the house.

He caught my hand. “I’m kidding! I locked it.” He pulled me close to him. “Of course, we could always go back inside and check if you want.” He brushed his lips against mine.

I considered it briefly, but the lure of warm chips and fresh salsa was too strong. “No, it’s okay. I trust you.” I jumped in the car before he could do any more convincing.

He stared at me for a second before walking around and getting in the car. “I don’t know why I put up with you,” he said, shaking his head.

“Because you love me,” I said with a grin, drawing the word “love” out into at least three syllables.

“Yes,” he said, the corner of his mouth turned up in a smile. “I do.” He looked at me for a few long seconds then put the car in gear and eased it out of the driveway.

It was only a few minutes across town to the restaurant. Normally, we would have just walked, as we mostly did whenever we went anywhere in Cape Bay, but there was still a distinct chill in the air, and driving would make our date night a little more special anyway. Besides, if Matt had one too many beers to drink, it would be easy enough to walk home and go back for his car in the morning. It wouldn’t be the first time someone in Cape Bay made that particular walk of shame.

As soon as I opened my car door in the parking lot of the restaurant, I was hit with the scent of the salty sea air. Of course, Cape Bay being a tiny town, you could smell the ocean from just about anywhere, but Fiesta Mexicana was right on the beach—in fact their patio hung out over the water. I secretly thought that’s why their food tasted so good.

Matt and I were greeted warmly as we stepped inside. “Matteo! Francesca!” Bill’s voice boomed out from the counter where he was standing. He—and everyone else who worked in the restaurant—called us by our full names since the names were Italian and either the same as the Spanish names (in Matt’s case) or close enough (in mine). Matt’s name came out exactly the way his father would have pronounced it, but mine sounded like Fran-ses-ca instead of Fran-ches-ca. I found it charming though.

“Hey, Bill, how’s it going?” Matt shook Bill’s hand, and they clapped each other on the back in what I had come to think of as their ritual greeting. Mine was a half hug and an air kiss.

“Very busy tonight, but we always have a table for our two favorite customers.” Bill—whose real name was Guillermo, I had learned, but who went by Bill after having his name butchered too many times—grabbed a couple of menus and led us into the dining room, which was, as he’d said, crowded. “Where do you want to sit? In here or on the patio?”

Matt glanced at me. It was chilly out, but the patio was heated and enclosed this time of year, so it didn’t bother me. There were more important things to consider. “Does Pablo have a table open?”

“Of course! Of course! Always for you!” I was pretty sure Bill gave those “favorite customers” and “always for you” lines to lots of people, but it still felt good. Bill veered off to the left and led us to a table smack in the middle of the restaurant. Not exactly the kind of private and cozy space I would have ideally picked out for a date night since it made me feel like I was standing on a stage where everyone could see, but it would do. And as it turned out, it gave us front-row seats and leading roles in the night’s events.