CHAPTER 15
Cory
Normally when I have lunch with a woman, she is fidgety, jumpy, and nervous. Generally looking ahead to the after—after we leave, after we’re alone, after we kiss or make out or whatever we do, after we fall madly in love and I ask her be my date at the Grammys or the Oscars or the alter. The scenario is as predictable as it is exhausting, because I have no plans to ever get married. And as for awards shows, they are best attended with someone equally famous; that’s what it takes to garner the most attention from the press. It’s isn’t something I’m proud of, but it is what I’m used to.
I’m not used to this.
Sam looks around the room with an expression on her face I can’t decipher, but if I had to guess, I might call it discomfort. Distaste? Maybe that’s more accurate. Distaste mixed with a fair amount of wanting to get the heck out of here.
“Is something wrong?” Curiosity gets the best of me, and I have to know. We’re sitting in a rounded leather booth at Bambinos, one of the nicest Italian restaurants in Springfield. The tables are covered in white linen, the lights dimmed enough that people at the next table would have to squint through the darkness to make out our features—a definite plus for me—and they have the best bruschetta you’ll find anywhere. Loaded with garlic and peppers and olive oil, it’s better than anything I’ve tried in Italy. Might sound blasphemous, but it’s true.
Surely it’s not distaste.
“No,” she says. “Just…this place is expensive.”
She twists her napkin, and I want to kick myself. She’s a normal girl worried about how much this meal will set her back, and she thinks I expect her to pay for herself. Not too long ago, the thought of laying down this much money for lunch would have made me sweat. How quickly we forget when our circumstances change.
“Stop worrying. It’s on me.”
She releases the napkin and looks me in the eye. “You’re not paying for my dinner.”
“True, I’m paying for your lunch. And try to enjoy it, because here comes the waiter.”
She sighs and picks up a piece of bread, but I note with a tiny bit of pleasure that she doesn’t protest. I also realize that I like the idea of taking care of her. Now, I mean. Just this once. After this, she goes her way and I go mine. That’s the way I want it.
I grab my own roll and take a bite.
“Besides, I figured I could do better than McDonald’s. Fast food generally invites a mob of screaming teenagers, so we’re better off sitting here in this corner. Unless getting pulled on and yelled at is your thing?”
She holds a piece of bread in each hand. “No Cory, it isn’t my thing. I’m a girl who likes her privacy, believe it or not.”
My insides deflate. She likes privacy, yet I managed to crash into her world and turn the whole thing public. Will I ever do anything right?
“I’m sorry.” She says softly, chewing slowly and deep in thought. She reaches for her water and takes a sip, then sets the glass down and folds her hands on the table. “Thank you for this. I’ve never been here before, and it’s nice. I’m just a mess of emotions right now, and I honestly feel—”
“Who had the eggplant parmesan?” the waiter asks, and I shoot him a look. Terrible timing. I want to hear how she feels, not discuss pasta.
I lift my hand and he sets the plate in front of me, then moves to Sam’s side of the table. He almost makes it. Almost. Maybe the plate is too hot or their rhythm just isn’t in sync, but as Sam moves her fork and salad plate out of the way, he knocks into her hand, the plate tilts sideways, and Sam’s pasta goes straight into her lap. All of it. Not one string of mozzarella left standing.
She jumps up and I jump up and the waiter jumps back and apologies start flying.
“I’m so sorry.”
The waiter says it and I say it and she doesn’t hear either one of us because she’s busy looking at her pants. They’re ruined and I should have taken her to McDonald’s. Why did I choose this stupid restaurant?
“Here, let me help you.”
We’re both speaking again. I come to her side of the table and reach for a napkin—the thick cloth kind that should soak up a plate full of cheese and tomato sauce pretty well—and begin to pat her thighs as noodles slip away from her body and drop to the floor. It’s the wrong thing to do. Sam stiffens, something clicks, and a few excited whispers make their way to my ears.
That’s him.
I think that’s him.
Oh my god it is him.
And then Sam speaks.
“Three people just took our picture, and I’m pretty sure your hand was between my thighs in all of them.” Her voice breaks on the last word, and that’s when I know she’s had it.
With me.
With this restaurant.
With our whole situation.
But it isn’t until someone asks from behind me, “Can I have your autograph?” that she really loses it. With a palm pressed to her forehead, she looks at me straight on.
“You know Cory, I’m not up to this. I don’t have the energy, not today. I’m sorry, but emotionally I just can’t take it.” She looks down at her pants and the first tear escapes. Followed by another. Before I can say anything, Sam pushes past me and runs for the back of the room. Say what you will about seeing the bright side in every situation, but sometimes there is no bright side. Sometimes the only thing to see is darkness for miles and miles with no way to find even a single glimmer of light.
That’s all I find myself thinking as I turn to the girl behind me and practically growl out the words, “No, you can’t have an autograph. No one gets an autograph!”
At the startled look on her face, I slump in my chair and mentally berate myself. And that’s where I wait, hoping to God there’s no back door to this place. Hoping to whoever else might be listening that Sam hasn’t already disappeared through it.
* * *
I hang my head in my hands. It’s only been a couple of minutes, but it seems like it’s taking forever.
I should leave. I have a vacation to get to, plans ready and waiting for me. I don’t know this girl and I seem to be making everything worse. And sure, I owe her everything, but no amount of groveling or begging or buying nice dinners could ever repay this debt. There’s no use in even trying.
I stand up just as she rushes out clutching a stack of paper towels in one hand and a cell phone in the other. I frown at her agitated state. Only one leg is marginally cleaned up, the other still shedding linguine noodles. One noodle falls to the floor. She doesn’t even notice. I tell myself again that I should leave, that whatever has her wound up isn’t any of my business, but I can’t make myself go. She looks worried. And now so am I.
I reach for her arm as she brushes past.
“Sam, what’s wrong?”
She barely gives me a passing glance as she covers the phone’s mouthpiece with her hand. “I’ve got to go. Thanks for lunch.”
Thanks for lunch? We didn’t even eat, and ten seconds ago she was done with me.
Sam turns and walks away, but she’s still within earshot when I hear the words, “How long has he been missing?”
I don’t know what that means, but there’s no way I’m leaving now. Reaching for my wallet, I fish out a hundred dollar bill, slap it on the table, and take off, hoping to catch her before she reaches the door and ignoring the cell phone clicks and camera flashes as I rush past.
“Sam, wait.” I call out to her. “Who’s missing? And don’t open the front door yet.”
That gets her to stop. She turns to gape at me. “Why not?”
“Because I haven’t checked to see if it’s clear yet. Paparazzi could be everywhere by now.”
She rolls her eyes and spins away, shoving the door open with her hip. After the darkness of the restaurant, sunlight blinds us both. The unmistakable barrage of clicking ushers in the heaviness of dread that I’m used to.
Sam just glares at them unfazed, muttering under her breath. “Screw the paparazzi. They wouldn’t dare mess with me right now.”
“What happened?” I ask her, ignoring the shouts of Cory, what’s it feel like to be home and Cory, how will your parents react to seeing you after all these years? There’s nothing I want to answer anyway, no appropriate way to respond. All that swims in my mind is that worried look on her face and the desperate hope that I didn’t somehow cause it. “Sam, who’s missing? Maybe I can help.”
I reach for her arm just as we make it to her car. Finally, she stops to look at me. “Do you have any experience trying to find old men who have no money, no sense of direction, and no memory? Because my father is missing from the nursing home, and I have to try and find him right now.” She retrieves her car keys, hands shaking so badly the keys slip from her grasp and land on the pavement.
I reach down to grab them, then hand them back to her as I pull out my own keys. “No, but I know how to drive.” I unlock my rented Land Rover and open the passenger door. Without protest, she climbs inside. Walking around to the driver’s side, I slide behind the wheel and start the ignition. It doesn’t matter if she would rather do this alone. It doesn’t matter if I wasn’t actually invited. I’m in this now, and I’m not leaving.
I yank the gear in reverse and quickly pull out.
“Just tell me where we’re going.”