Brandon expected dinner to be excruciating, slow, but he enjoyed it. He took Ramon to Café Amaretto, a romantic Italian restaurant in west Tampa, elegant enough that they had to wear jackets and ties. The tie felt stiff, uncomfortable. The last time he had worn it was for his father’s funeral.
The room glowed softly, lit with candles and old world chandeliers. Brandon was well-versed enough to recognize the fresh ingredients, the skill involved to present such a rich feast. The Italian waiters had such thickly accented English that they were hard to understand. Ramon spoke a little Spanish over dinner, soothing, as Brandon remembered the voices of the grooms in his father’s barn and the comfort of his childhood. They split a carafe of wine with dinner and a mousse for dessert. Ramon paid
