[Alyssa]
Ten minutes after our encounter, the girls and myself decided to meet back up with the guys and grab some lunch. Now, we're all standing in separate lines to get our food.
Chandler and Dahlia are standing in line for subs, Jazmyne and Shiloh are standing in line for Chick-fil-A, while Chresanto and I stand in line for Japanese food. I stand so close to Chresanto that I'm practically breathing in his cologne, but neither of us seem to mind the proximity.
"Do you know what you would like?" he asks me, staring up at the menu in front of us.
I look up at it also, trying to decipher what each item is and whether or not it sounds appetizing; sadly, I come up with nothing. "I've never really eaten Japanese food before." Chresanto gives me a flabbergasted look. "He usually just orders whatever's cheaper for him, or he makes one of us do it."
Chresanto understandingly nods his head as we move up in line. "How about the chicken and shrimp teriyaki and a California roll?"
I ponder the meal and nod. "That sounds good." We're the fourth customers in line behind an elderly couple, a family of four and two teenage girls, in that order.
"So, are you ready for our date tonight?" Chresanto questions. I nod. "What are you going to wear?"
"You'll see tonight," I respond as the elderly couple exits the line and the family moves up. "I feel safe when I'm with you." After realizing what I'd just mindlessly blurted out, I quickly cover my mouth and look down at the ground.
Chresanto removes my hands and lifts my head up using his index finger. "I wouldn't have it any other way." He lightly pecks my lips, then brings his lips next to my ear and starts whispering. "Do you think Ace would let me buy your freedom from him?"
A part of me wants to be offended that Chresanto wants to buy me—well, my freedom, but still—from Ace, yet another part of me wants to rejoice and shout that he even offered to do so. Instead of coming up with a coherent answer, I stammer out, "I... you... I wish."
Chresanto stands in his previous position, facing me once more, a downhearted look on his face. "Yeah, me, too." After that, no more communication is exchanged between us, and the line silently moves up until Chresanto and I are at the beginning.
"Hello. What may I get you?" the short, black-haired cashier asks us in a thick Japanese accent.
"Two orders of your chicken and shrimp teriyaki with noodles, a California roll and a cup of Pepsi, please," he orders.
"And for you, miss?" the lady inquires, her attention on me.
"Pepsi, too, please," I smile. The lady puts our order in then looks up at us again.
"Your total is twenty-two thirty four," she states.
Chresanto pulls out his wallet and opens it, sliding a black card from one of the many slots and hands it to the woman; she slides it and holds it back out to Chresanto, grabbing his receipt and holding it out as well once it finishes printing. He takes them and places them in his wallet and slides his wallet back in his pocket as the lady grabs two cups and fills them with our drinks then holds them out to us; we grab them and wait at the end of the counter for our food.
