I felt my eyes roll toward my frontal lobe.
“They think Mr. Dorton’s lifestyle exceeds his earning power?” Ryan asked, dipping a fry into the mayo.
“Apparently the man’s got a lot of toys.”
“Dorton’s back under surveillance?”
“If Ricky Don so much as spits on a sidewalk, he’s busted.”
I upended the ketchup, pounded, returned the bottle to the table with a loud crack.
We ate in silence for several minutes. Then Ryan’s hand slipped over mine.
“What’s bugging you?”
“Nothing.”
“Tell me.”
I looked up. Deep concern in the cornflower eyes. I looked down.
“It’s nothing.”
“Talk to me, cupcake.”
I knew where this was going and I didn’t like it.
“What is it?” Ryan probed.
Easy one. I didn’t like feeling depressed by my work. I didn’t like feeling cheated because of a postponed vacation. I didn’t like feeling jealous over an innocent flirtation with an anonymous waitress. I didn’t like feeling that I had to answer to my daughter. I didn’t like feeling left out of her life.
I didn’t like feeling I was not in control.
Control. That was always my problem. Tempe had to be in control. That was the sole insight I’d gained from my single experience with analysis.
I didn’t like analysis, didn’t like admitting I needed outside help.
And I didn’t like talking about my feelings. Ever. Not with a psychologist. Not with a priest. Not with Yoda. Not with Ryan. I wanted to slide from the booth and forget this conversation.
As if in betrayal, a lone tear headed south from one eye. Embarrassed, I backhanded my cheek.
“Done?”
I nodded.
Ryan paid the check.
The parking lot held two SUVs and my Mazda. Ryan leaned against the driver’s door, pulled me to him, and tilted my face upward with both hands.
“Talk.”
I tried to lower my chin.
“Let’s jus—”
“Does this have to do with last night?”
“No. Last night was…” My voice trailed off.
“Was what?”
God, I hated this.
“Fine.” Skyrockets and the
Ryan ran a thumb under each of my eyes.
“Then why the tears?”
OK, buster. You want feelings?
I took a deep breath and unloaded.
“Some sick son of a bitch torched a newborn. Some other prick’s been slaughtering wildlife like it was mold under the sink. Two guys wasted themselves on a rock face while in the act of boosting the Colombian economy. And some poor bastard got his brains blown out, and his head and hands lobbed into a shithouse.”
My chest gave a series of tiny heaves.
“I don’t know, Ryan. Sometimes I think goodness and charity are racing toward extinction faster than the condor or the black rhino.”
Tears were now flowing.
“Greed and callousness are winning out, Ryan. Love and kindness and human compassion are becoming just a few more entries on the list of endangered species.”
Ryan pulled me close. Wrapping my arms around him, I wept on his chest.
The lovemaking was slower, gentler that night. Cellos and a triangle, not drums and a crash cymbal.
Afterward, Ryan stroked my hair as I lay with my cheek nestled in the hollow beneath his collarbone.
