Erin packs a few things into the cart when I approach Cora. “So, I’ll see you at six-thirty?”
She checks her watch, noting our dinner is a little more than three hours from now. “Yes, I’ll be there. I let Alyson know earlier.”
Right, Alyson. I ignore the idea of Alyson disrupting dinner and change the topic.
“Do you need help?” I point to the cart.
“No, I’m good. Thanks, though.”
We all shuffle back to the cars. And although I walked here this morning, the temperature is much warmer now and I don’t want to spend over an hour with the heat beating down on me. I ask Alyson for a ride back. She concedes and we hop in the rental after saying goodbye to Cora and Erin.
We are out of the park and turning off the bridge when Alyson turns down the radio, muting the local rock station. “So, what’s the plan for tonight?”
I peer over at her, her eyes glued to the road as she watches for pedestrians. “Not sure I understand the question,” I answer. I have an idea of where this is headed, but I won’t put words in her mouth or give her fuel for the fire.
Stopped at a red light for Hamden Drive, she faces me a second and then returns her eyes to the street. “The dinner meeting.” I don’t miss the way she emphasizes the word meeting. Her tone mirroring a bad taste on her tongue. Yep. Just as I suspected.
“I thought we already discussed this. I really don’t feel like repeating myself,” I clip.
She turns onto Hamden and we wade through traffic for the next twenty minutes. Not another word passes
between us and the silence leans more toward uncomfortable than not.
Once she parks the car, we head into the hotel. I press the call button for the elevator and notice her slight fidget as we wait.
Is she nervous? Why the hell would she be nervous?
“You okay?” I ask as the elevator car arrives and we step in.
We press the buttons for our respective floors and the doors close. Once we are in the confines of the elevator, she answers, “I’m fine. Just…”
I hold up a hand, stopping her from continuing. Already aware of what she is going to say. She is warning me. Telling me to be on my best behavior. As if I am a fucking child. As if I am her former client who liked to stick his dick in anything with a hole. I understand her role in our business relationship, but she needs to give me some slack. She needs to trust me.
The elevator pings for her floor and she hesitates a moment. A second later, she steps out and faces me. “Enjoy your dinner, Gavin.”
I nod, a snide smile on my face. Thanks, I will.
Searching through my memory, I cannot recall a time I remember being as nervous as I am right now. It has been ten minutes since the host seated me. Eight minutes since the server came to the table, pouring two glasses of ice water and asking if I would prefer something else to drink. Five minutes since I picked up the menu, scanned the options but didn’t read a single word of it.
But none of that matters. None of it.
As I twist and untwist the cloth napkin in my lap, the only thing that matters is standing at the host podium. She is utter perfection. And I am second-guessing this whole situation I masterminded.
While she waits for the host to return and direct her to the table, I sit in silence and watch her. Her silky, straight hair grazes the tops of her shoulders. The inky black strands parted off-center, the side with less hair tucked behind her ear. The other side hangs straight and blankets half of her cheek.
God, I miss running my fingers through her hair.
She bounces from one leg to the other as she waits, her bare calves accentuated by the black chunky-heeled Mary Jane’s she wears. My eyes stroll up the length of her body, pausing and relishing on the dress that stops just above her knees. It hugs her body like a glove. Matching her hair and shoes, it’s black in color but embellished with large rivets.
This is my Cora. The girl I knew all those years ago. The girl I fell in love with. The woman I still love.
Regardless of how much time has passed, she still manages to keep the root of who she is alive. And although she dresses as expected for her career, she hasn’t abandoned who she is at heart.
The host returns to the podium and they exchange words, her smile lighting up the room before he turns to walk her to the table. Should I keep my eyes on her? Or should I avert my gaze and play it cool? As if I wait for her arrival disinterested.
The napkin rubs against my palms as I wring the cloth tighter. When she sees me—and only me—her brows scrunch in question. She stands ten feet from the table when a bead of sweat rolls down the side of my neck. Five feet when I swallow the boulder in my throat.
I can do this.