Imaginary Lines (New York Leopards 3)

A guy in black and an apron stopped at the table. I didn’t think that in places like this, waiters usually came to the tables, but it didn’t surprise me that Abe created an exception. The guy landed his hand on Abe’s shoulder. “Abester! What can I get you? On the house, for yesterday.”

I raised my brows in what was meant to by mockingly reprimanding, but I couldn’t keep the smile from teasing at my lips. “I see. Is that why you brought me here?”

For the first time, the guy glanced at me. He returned my smile. “Oh, shit, man, didn’t mean to unimpress your date. We actually charge him twice as much for everything. Very fancy establishment we’re running here.”

Abe laughed and sent the guy off with our drink orders and a pizza request. When he turned back to me, he smiled apologetically. “Sorry. Guys here are great, though. I take everyone here.”

I leaned forward. “So I’m not special then?”

He matched my posture, eyes bright. “Digging for compliments?”

I’d half-forgotten he had a mind like a steel trap. “Always.”

He smiled, but it wasn’t as funny as usual. It was—serene, if that made sense. His dark eyes crinkled down at the corners, like they always had when he was happy. “You’re special.”

There was too much sincerity in his voice, and I didn’t understand it, and it made me uncomfortable. I strove for levity to mask my nerves. “So are you, Mr. Rookie of the Year.”

H

e leaned back with a grin, looking like he’d accomplished whatever he’d meant to. Mercifully, he glanced around the room and changed the subject. “It really is a great place, though. The guys and women who work here all come from shelters; they learn to cook, to manage, to bartend. It really gets a lot of them back on their feet.”

Aha. It all made sense now. “And let me guess. You’re involved.”

He looked back at me with a flash of surprise.

But it was obvious, really. “You fund it, you sponsor it, you volunteer your time here to help. I’m right, aren’t I?”

He couldn’t deny it, but he didn’t look like he wanted to admit it either. “So?”

The server came back with our drinks, chatted with Abe a few more minutes about yesterday’s game as I pulled on my standard rum and Coke and then left. Abe looked back at me.

I picked up my thread. “I know you, Abraham Krasner.”

He straightened slowly. “What does that mean?”

I shook my head. “You take care of people. It’s what you do. It’s why you asked me here tonight. It’s why you’re part of this. You’re a protector.”

He scowled at me. “Why do you make that sound like a bad thing?”

I felt loose and rhyme-y from the effects of my first drink, and my shrug had a little more bounce than usual. “It’s not. It’s just very...reassuring to know some things don’t change.”

He didn’t look away. “Some things do.”

“Do you remember when we first met? Your bar mitzvah. You danced with me when I didn’t know anyone. Second time we met? You made sure I felt comfortable at your house when my parents brought me over for dinner. All of middle and high school? You never let anything bad happen to me. You’re a good person, Abraham Krasner.” Suddenly it seemed imperative that he knew that. “A really good person.”

His eyes were dark, his mouth a flat line. “I broke your heart when you were nineteen.”

Now it was my time to straighten, shocked sober. “Well, that’s not a very nice thing to bring up.”

“It wasn’t a very nice thing to do.”

I placed my hands in my lap. “I don’t really want to talk about that right now.”

“I feel like I handled it badly—”

“Abe! It’s fine. It’s all fine. I was a teenager. You were—you were you. It’s all fine.” I finished off my drink for succor. “I moved on. You moved on. We both literally moved—ironically,” I muttered, “to the same city.”

The server came with our pizza.