“I’msorry,” she said. Her face softened. He still didn’t know what to say. It’sokay? It wasn’t okay; it was killing him. He had opted for “Thank you” forthe longest time, though that still felt wrong somehow.
“Thankyou.”
Joyestared in his eyes with a look that was part sympathy and part fear. Though shewas visibly relieved he wasn’t a philanderer, she didn’t seem to be fullycommitted to riding the night through either.
Heslipped out from under her fingers and patted the back of her wrist softlybefore placing his hands in his lap. He smiled, but knew it looked strange. Hewas still getting reacquainted with the expression. In that moment, it feltfalse. Like he was wearing a mask that didn’t fit quite right. A clown facedrawn over a frown. He tried again, letting his mouth relax and the smileshrink a little. He tried to think of something that made him feel good.Surprisingly, the night with Joye up to this point was it. He got theexpression right the second time.
“Iam not a project. I promise.” He held up his hands in defense. “And I knoweveryone who says, ‘I promise’ is lying, but I swear I’m not. I am not aproject, and I’m not looking for someone to fix me. Soooo, you know. That.”
Shegrinned, raising an eyebrow. “Well, that’s good for you, because I am shit at projects.I have a whole apartment full of half-built Ikea furniture.”
“Ican’t read their instructions. You have to have a degree in Egyptology toassemble their bookshelves.”
Hersmile grew. “I don’t take the fake families out of the frames I buy. I justprop my pictures up in front of them.”
“Inever even print out the pictures I take of my friends. That way no one cancomplain about how they look in them.” They laughed. He put his hand back ontop of hers. She didn’t pull it away. There was a pause while they bothsearched for another witticism to share about their mutual inability tocomplete simple tasks. They laughed at the same time as if the growing silenceitself was evidence of their lack of follow through.
“See?”she said.
Itfelt good to share a real joke. Not one that was forced through the filter ofgrief, but honest playfulness. He wanted more of it. Searching for a way to getthe conversation going again, he fished for something to say, and alit upon theworst possible idea. “Seriously, though. I’m not looking for anyone to fix me.”
“Sayit again, and maybe you’ll believe it.” She winked, but he was woundednonetheless. Her expression changed as he felt his own darken. The ghost of hiswife felt like someone sitting in the next chair at their table. Joye placedher other hand over top his before he could pull it away. “It’s okay. I’m notinterested in fixing you. But I am interested in you right now. Is thatgood enough?”
“That’sperfect.”
Theirserver approached the table and asked how they were. Joye looked at her plate.Her jambalaya was almost all gone. Sam’s salmon, by contrast, looked like ithad barely been touched. He said, “Everything’s fine. Can we get—” He meant toask for another couple of glasses of wine. Instead, Joye broke in.
“Thecheck, please. And a to-go box for Mr. Follow-Through’s fish.”
“Itnever reheats well,” he said.
“Likeyou’d even try.”
Thewaiter frowned with confusion, while they laughed at the private joke. Hepulled the bill folder from his apron pocket and set it on the table, saying,“Whenever you’re ready,” walking off before Sam could get his credit card outof his wallet.
Joyesaid, “I know a place around the corner that serves the best cocktails. Beforewe go, I need to use the powder room. I’ll be right back.”
“Takeyour time. I’m sure our waiter will.” He stuck his card in the folder and setit on the edge of the table.
Shesmiled and walked off, looking over her shoulder once before disappearing intothe ladies’ room.
Heturned back in his seat, to face the child still staring at him. Without Joyesitting across from him, Sam had no one to hide behind. Sam pulled his phoneout of his pocket, turned sideways in his seat and opened Facebook, even thoughhe didn’t care what anyone on the app had to say. He scrolled past all thepeople who hadn’t called him in months looking for something to distract himwhile he waited.
Still,he felt the kid’s gaze burning through him.
WhenJoye came back from the bathroom, the waiter still hadn’t been by to take thefolder. Sam pulled cash out of his wallet and substituted it for his card. Thetip was less than he intended to leave, and it left him with nothing to take totheir next stop, but that was the price of wanting to leave in a hurry.
“Let’sgrab that cocktail!”
“Whatabout your fish.”
“You’reright. I’ll never reheat it.” He probably would have eaten it eventually, buthe just wanted to get out of the restaurant. And away from the kid.
* * *
Therewas a line to get into the bar, but the night air was nice and Sam didn’t minda little wait under the stars—all three of them that could be seen from thecity. The temperature had dropped a little since the start of the evening, butSam felt a hot flush rise in his cheeks as Joye slipped her hand into his. Despitethe evening chill, he felt the urge to take off his sport coat before she couldsee him sweating through it. But that would mean letting go of her hand to slipit off. What if she didn’t reach for him again? What if he tried to take herhand and she pulled away? He told himself he was being ridiculous—she’d reachedout for him, after all—self-doubt got the better of him and he decided he’drather sweat than break the contact.
Sheasked about his job while they waited. He told her as much about being a copyeditorfor a textbook publisher as he could without utterly boring her. Thatconversation lasted less than five minutes, and didn’t get them any closer tothe door. “I am writing a novel, though.”
“Ooh,”she said, with apparent sincerity. “About what?”
Heshrugged and waived his free hand dismissively. “It’s nothing serious.”
“Oh,you don’t get to tease me. Spill it.”
“It’sabout a person who finds a thumb-drive
