Blast From Two Pasts

Chapter 3: Untouched Rib Eye Steak

Seeing Basti—or should I say Lucas—in the restaurant, realizing he’s my blind date, and knowing I’d be spending the next moments with my childhood secret love was too much for my poor heart and growling stomach to bear. I didn’t know whether the woozy feeling was out of nervousness or hunger.

There he was, fifteen years older, impeccably dressed in a light-pink polo shirt with sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Nobody—and I mean nobody—can pull off a pink shirt better than him. Hugh Grant in Notting Hill, you say? Not even close.

As I walked towards the table in measured steps, I started berating myself for my lousy analytical skills and lousier name recall. Jeez, how many Lucas Lobregats were there? How could I have not known it was him? Maybe I was still too numb from being dumped in such a tragic fashion that I completely lost sight of the fact that there were other men on this planet. Men like the guy I was about to have dinner with.

What do I say? ‘Hi! I’m the crybaby who threw you under the bus after you defended me from Ugly Bully Boy when we were in high school. Who remembers what happened fifteen years ago, anyway? Definitely not you. Hehe. Okay, gotta go. Bye!’

“Lucas Lobregat?” I croaked.

He turned his head towards me, eyebrows furrowed, and studied me for a moment. I thought I saw him blink a few times, but it could be that my brain was registering all sorts of images out of fear, hunger or both. I looked like I had just run a marathon—in kitten heels—with my messy ponytail and sweaty forehead. Couldn’t blame the guy for looking like he’s watching a train wreck.

“I’m Cara Nicolas,” I said as I offered my hand, wishing and praying he wouldn’t notice it was shaking.

“Lucas,” was all he said, staring at me like he was looking at the tooth fairy, Santa Claus, or some other unreal character. His handshake was firm, business-like, everything you’d expect from a hot shot, which I was quite sure he was. He kept staring at me until I had no choice but to look away and sit down. I couldn’t read his expression. I couldn’t even look at him, for Pete’s sake!

“I’m so sorry for being late. My interview with this basketball star went on forever my cab got a flat tire so I ended up taking the train I didn’t even have the time to change I’m not used to dining in fancy places in fact I told Ayen clearly that I don’t like high-end—”

Yes. I was rambling like an idiot.

“Sorry,” was all I managed to say in the end, when I felt my cheeks getting hot. I wished he’d avert his eyes, but I knew he was amused. I, on the other hand, wasn’t.

“It’s fine,” he muttered. “So, it’s Cara. I thought Chad said I was meeting Clara.”

I chuckled nervously. “Oh, you know Chad. Mispronounces everything.”

Oops.

“And he has a habit of messing things up. Workaholic equals dysfunctional, I guess,” I went on.

Double oops. I wanted to slap myself. It didn’t help that Lucas just sat there, looking at me. I was rambling like an idiot, again.

“I mean, he can’t even manage to remember Ayen’s birthday,” I continued. The Freudian trance was fast-tracking this train wreck. Nervousness has always been my truth serum. “It makes her crazy, but she’s still marrying him. It must be love. Wow, I’m hungry!”

I had a quick glimpse of the humiliation that would follow but at that moment, I was having an out-of-body experience. No point in trying to control anything, especially my wayward mouth.