Our waiter brings more water and asks if we need anything. I watch Oliver give up on the call and pocket his phone without speaking. Just as he’s about to look up and straight into our restaurant, the girl comes over to him. I can’t hear what she’s saying, but I image it’s some seductive attempt to lead him back to their group—to her. But instead he holds up a finger to indicate one minute, gets his phone back out, and places another call.
Again, my phone rings.
“Are you sure you shouldn’t get it?” Carol asks.
“I shouldn’t,” I say, and Carol lifts an eyebrow.
I watch Oliver speak into his phone this time. He talks for a couple of minutes, and the anticipation kills me. I watch his face move through a series of expressions that end without resolution. His face is soft and sorrowful. He ends the call and rejoins his friends, his admirer already leaning into him. I press the buttons needed to retrieve my messages. His voice is just as soft and sorrowful as his face was.
“Nina,” Oliver says in my ear. “I’ve been thinking about you. I don’t know why you won’t talk to me. I don’t know what went wrong. I just want you to know”—he pauses—“that I’m sorry it did. I need to talk to you. I need to tell you something.”
My heart is racing, and I hold up one finger to Carol to indicate I’ll be off the phone in a moment. She waves at me as if to say not to worry. Oliver pauses, and I think the message is over, but then his voice comes across the line again.
“You know what I hear all day? From the people at the nursing home? I hear what they’re stuck in. One lady is afraid her sister is going to call the police and report her for stealing the pink purse that their mother won at the fair. One lady spends all day packing for Denver. She’s not going to Denver.
“All day, I hear the insanity in their heads, I hear ‘I’m sick, I’m hungry, find my purse, my dog is napping in the oven, I hate you, I love you, what time is it, when the road closes the button gate feels soft,’ and it’s all just a blaring neon sign saying don’t spend your life regretting that you didn’t do what you were meant to do. You have to do it while you still know who you are.”
There’s another pause and then his voice softens.
“I’m completely in love with you, Nina. Maybe I thought I wouldn’t fall in love with you. But I did. I really need to see you.”
Again, there is a pause, but this time the message stops, and a voice tells me to press one to repeat the message or seven to delete it. I don’t want to do either of those things.
I slip the phone back in my bag, apologize to Carol, and then attempt to be friendly and present through the rest of our meal. I’m sure I do a terrible job because I can barely keep my eyes off Oliver as he sits with his friends, eating and talking.
After we pay our checks, Carol and I walk outside. All Oliver would need to do to see me is look up, but he’s listening to one of the other guys tell what must be a long and interesting story. I stall, fidget, and then give up.
“You ready?” Carol asks.
“I—” But there is no point in finishing the sentence, and we start to walk away.
I begin to have a panic attack. Maybe not a real one in the true medical sense, but I feel like the air I just inhaled is being ripped back out of my lungs. When I try to breathe again, my air passages are on lockdown. Each step I take away from Oliver shoots fire up my calves, radiating a sense of desperate indecisiveness through my internal navigation system. I want to fling myself into the street for lack of anything better to do.
“Darn,” I say with sudden planning. “I don’t think the waiter gave me back my debit card.”
I stop on the sidewalk and pretend to search my purse. Carol seems to believe me and assumes the proper panic-by-association stance of a good friend.
“You go on ahead,” I say to her. “I know you need to get to work. I’ll just run back and get the card.”
“I can go with you,” she says, ever helpful.
“No, no,” I say and hope it’s not obvious that I’m trying to rid myself of a witness. “I’m sure it’s there. I’ll call you later.”
She hugs me good-bye, and I turn and walk slowly in the other direction. I catch a large group of people crossing the street and duck into their midst. I slip inside the boutique beside the restaurant where Oliver still sits outside with his friends. I stand too long pretending to look at a display of handmade jewelry, and the salesperson comes to ask if she can assist me.
“No, no,” I say. “I’m just looking.”
Out the window to see which way my sort-of-boyfriend goes so that I can follow him.
Oliver begins to make what looks like good-byes before everyone else has finished, and the lone girl seems reluctant to let him go. He’s gracious in his rejection of her, and I remember with a pang the sincerity of his phone message. He drops his share of money on the table and makes his way through the outdoor crowd to the street. I wait for him to walk far enough away to have his back solidly to me and then I exit the shop.
My blood seems to stop in my veins, my hands and feet are cold, and I’m nearly shivering with something like fear but more like hope. I’m no good at the spy thing, and I’m sure I’ll be embarrassed in short time. Oliver walks at a slow pace, the pace
