Free The Decent Proposal by Kemper Donovan Page B

do?”
    â€œThey manage a restaurant together.”
    â€œThat sounds nice!”
    â€œIt’s in Studio City,” she added, hoping this would dampen his curiosity. He probably didn’t get up to the Valley very often.
    â€œOh, cool, I eat up there a lot.” Knocking the Valley was about as wrongheaded and outdated as disparaging Brooklyn had become for New Yorkers. “Lots of great sushi up there.”
    â€œWell, it’s not a sushi restaurant,” she said. “It’s Italian, and it’s pretty much a dump.”
    Okay , he thought. Moving on. “Well, it must be nice to have them so close.”
    There was a pause, inside of which Elizabeth scrambled for an answer while at the same time praying: please don’t ask it, please don’t ask it, please don’t —
    â€œHow often do you see them?”
    Crap. She opened her mouth to tell the lie she’d told many times before— oh, every few weeks or so —when suddenly she thought: why bother? She could have worn a paper bag to this“date” and it wouldn’t have mattered, so why lie to him now? He wasn’t one of her bosses, who might think twice about making her a partner if he knew that on top of lacking a significant other, she and her parents were estranged. There was no reason to lie to him. He wasn’t going anywhere.
    â€œI don’t,” she said, breathing out, her shoulders descending to their original position.
    â€œYou don’t see them? Ever?”
    â€œWell, we have dinner on Christmas. And brunch at Easter. And they call me on my birthday. But that’s it.”
    There was another pause, inside of which she watched, amused, while he churned through this information.
    â€œBut you live in the same city.”
    She nodded.
    â€œWhy don’t you see them more, if you don’t mind my asking?”
    â€œTo be honest I do mind,” she said. “It’s complicated.”
    â€œThat’s cool,” he said, holding up his hands in surrender and taking a step backward. (He nearly collided with a red-aproned worker restocking the ketchup dispenser.) “You’re allowed to be mysterious.”
    Mysterious? “Well, I’m not trying to be,” she said.
    â€œIf you were, you wouldn’t be very mysterious, would you?”
    â€œFair enough,” she said, with the ghost of a smile.
    â€œWhat about siblings?”
    â€œI have a brother. Two years younger.”
    He raised an eyebrow. “Do you ever talk to him?”
    She shook her head, no . He just stared at her.
    â€œWhat about you?” she asked. “Siblings?”
    â€œOnly child,” he said. “Much to my chagrin.” If he had a little brother, he had no doubt they’d talk all the time.
    Not a shocker , thought Elizabeth, while gesturing toward the bare-bones menu printed behind the counter: burgers, fries,fountain sodas, shakes. “What do you usually eat?” She was getting a little bored.
    â€œOh, just a burger,” he said. “Protein-style.”
    As a supplement to its bare-bones menu, there was a “secret” menu at In-N-Out wherein almost any variation on the few items offered was possible, no matter how outlandish or disgusting, such as ordering four—or forty—patties of beef in a single burger, or umpteen slices of cheese. Protein-style meant the hamburger would be wrapped in lettuce instead of a bun.
    â€œProtein-style?” Elizabeth wrinkled her nose. She’d tried protein-style once out of curiosity, and could still recall the way the cool, crisp lettuce contrasted with the hot gooey meat inside. It had reminded her of picking up after a college friend’s dog in winter—the soft warmth radiating nastily through the cold plastic bag. “Are you on a diet or something?” The manorexic lawyers at her firm all ordered their burgers protein-style.
    â€œWhat? No!” he protested. “I