Obsidian Butterfly - Laurell K. Hamilton [43]
A waitress came to the booth, handed plastic menus all around even to Becca which pleased her, and then went away while we looked at them. Peter’s first comment was, “I hate Mexican food.”
Donna said, “Peter,” in a warning voice.
But I added my two cents worth, “Me, too.”
Peter looked at me sideways, as if he didn’t trust my show of solidarity with him. “Really?”
I nodded. “Really.”
“Ted picked the restaurant,” he said.
“Think he did it just to be irritating?” I asked.
Peter was looking directly at me, eyes a little wide. “Yeah, I do.”
I nodded. “Me, too.”
Donna had an open-mouthed astonished look on her face. “Peter, Anita.” She turned to Edward. “What are we going to do with the two of them?” Her appealing to Edward for help over such a small thing made me think less of her.
“You can’t do anything with Anita,” he said, and he turned cool blue eyes to Peter. “I’m not sure about Peter yet.”
Peter wouldn’t meet Edward’s gaze, and the boy squirmed just a bit. Edward made him uncomfortable on more than one level. It wasn’t just that Edward was doing his mom. It was more than that. Peter was just a little afraid of Edward, and I was betting that he hadn’t done anything to earn it. I was betting that Edward had tried very hard to win Peter over as he’d won Becca over, but Peter wasn’t having any of it. It had probably started out as just the normal resentment of anyone his mom dated, but the way he sat there now with his gaze carefully avoiding Edward’s let me know it was more now. Peter was more nervous than he should have been around Ted, as if he somehow had picked up the real Edward under all the fun and games. It was both good for Peter and bad for him. If he ever guessed the truth and Edward didn’t want it known . . . Well, Edward was very practical.
One problem at a time. Peter and I bent over our menus and made disparaging comments about nearly every menu item. By the time the waitress had come back with a basket of bread, I’d actually seen him smile twice. My own younger brother Josh had never been sullen, but I’d always gotten along with him. If I ever had children, not that I was planning on it, I wanted boys. I was just more comfortable with them.
The bread wasn’t bread, but some fluffed pastry thing called a sopapilla. There was a plastic container of honey on the table especially for them. Donna spread honey on a small corner and ate that. Edward spread honey across one entire end of his bread. Becca put so much honey on her bread that Donna had to take it away from her.
Peter took a sopapilla. “It’s the only good part of the meal,” he said.
“I don’t like honey,” I said.
“Me, either, but this isn’t bad.” He spread a minute amount of honey and ate the small bite he’d spread it on, then repeated the process.
I got one and followed his example. The bread was good, but the honey was very different, stronger, and with an undercurrent that reminded me of sage. “This honey tastes nothing like honey back home.”
“It’s sage honey,” Edward said. “Stronger flavor.”
“I’ll say.” I’d never had anything but clover honey. I wondered if all honey took on the flavor of the plant the bees used. It seemed likely. Learn something new every day. But Peter was right. The sopapillas were good, and the honey wasn’t bad in small, nay, microscopic amounts.
I finally ordered chicken enchilada. I mean, what could they possibly do to chicken to make it uneatable. Don’t answer that.
Peter had plain cheese enchiladas. Both of us seemed to be going on the less is better plan.
I was on my second sopapilla when everyone else, including