A Second Dinner

Three weeks after the bowl struck the doorway, Damian found Tessa in the kitchen arguing with a vending machine-sized espresso maker.

"You have one job," she told it.

The machine hissed.

"Yes, I realize you're very important."

"It doesn't respond well to threats," Damian said.

She turned, one hand pressed to her chest.

"Do your shoes come with a silence setting?"

"It's my kitchen."

"That wasn't an answer."

He crossed to the machine. His jacket was over his arm; he had returned from the harbor late, with a headache and a phone full of messages he did not want to answer.

"What did you press?"

"The picture of coffee. A reckless choice."

He looked at the display.

"It needs water."

Tessa shut her eyes.

"You may keep that information to yourself."

He filled the reservoir. She watched with her arms folded, her bandage reduced now to a narrow strip along the heel of her hand.

"Why are you still here?" he asked.

"Leah asked if I could stay an extra hour. Your mother had a difficult afternoon. Mrs. Alvarez approved it."

"You don't have to report every arrangement to me."

"I'm enjoying the novelty of having arrangements."

He deserved that.

She glanced at the clock. "The next shuttle is in twenty minutes. I thought I'd eat before I left."

On the counter sat a small container of rice and an apple.

Damian looked at it.

"Don't," she said.

"Don't what?"

"Make that face at my dinner."

"What face?"

"The one that suggests you're about to call a meeting about it."

His phone vibrated. Mancini's replacement wanted permission to make a man regret a decision. Damian turned the phone facedown.

"Rosa left chicken."

"For you."

"I'm unlikely to eat an entire bird."

Tessa looked at his shoulders. "You seem ambitious."

He laughed before he could stop himself.

She stared at him.

"What?"

"Nothing. I just didn't know you did that."

He put two plates on the counter.

"Would you like some chicken?"

She looked at the plates, then back at him.

"Yes. Thank you."

They ate at the small kitchen table, beneath a clock shaped like a lemon that Rosa had brought from her old apartment. Damian had owned the house for fourteen years and never noticed it.

Tessa ate as though she was hungry but determined not to appear so. After several minutes he slid the serving dish closer without comment.

She took another piece.

"How did you know to keep reading when she was asleep?" he asked.

Her fork slowed.

"I don't know if it makes a difference. I just like finishing where we said we'd stop."

"My father used to stop stories halfway through. Said it would make me eager for the next night."

"Did it?"

"He usually wasn't there the next night."

Tessa put down her fork.

He had not intended to say that.

"Emily hated cliffhangers," she said. "She would read the last page in the bookstore before she bought anything."

"Did you?"

"Absolutely not. I wanted to suffer in the proper order."

He felt the smile return.

"Did you read to her?"

"Sometimes. Sometimes she made me watch terrible reality shows and explain why a woman named Brittany was crying in a limousine."

"Did you know?"

"Not once. There were too many Brittanys."

She smiled at her plate. It faded slowly, without disappearing altogether.

"She would have liked your mother. They both have strong opinions about everyone else's hair."

Damian reached for his glass.

"My mother wanted me to marry a woman because she had good posture."

Tessa nearly choked on her water.

"Did you?"

"No."

"Poor woman. All that standing up straight for nothing."

His phone vibrated again. He ignored it.

Tessa noticed.

"You can answer."

"I know."

She met his eyes across the table. He watched the flush begin at the base of her throat and felt a dangerous, entirely disproportionate satisfaction.

She looked away first.

"I should wash these."

"Leave them."

"I work here."

"Your shift is over."

"Then so is your authority over my relationship with the dishes."

She stood and carried both plates to the sink.

He joined her, rolling up his sleeves.

She glanced at his forearms. There were scars there, one pale line disappearing beneath the dark ink near his wrist.

"Do you know how?" she asked.

"I'll try not to injure myself."

"Leah's busy. I can't promise you'll get a nice bandage."

They washed the plates. It should have been ridiculous. He had spent the afternoon deciding what to do about a man transporting guns through a warehouse leased in his company's name. Now he was drying a fork while Tessa criticized how much soap he used.

He preferred the fork.

She checked the clock and swore softly.

"I missed it."

"The shuttle?"

"It'll come back."

"In an hour."

She dried her hands.

"I'll wait."

The old answer rose readily: he would have Anthony bring a car, and that would be the end of it.

Instead he asked, "May I drive you home?"

She looked at him, measuring something.

"You, or someone who works for you?"

"Me."

"Do you know where I live?"

He could have said yes. He did know. Paul had put the address in the report.

"I read the address. I've never been there."

Her expression tightened, then eased.

"Thank you for not pretending."

They went through the front entrance rather than the staff door. Anthony looked at Damian's car keys and wisely said nothing.

Tessa stood beside the passenger door.

"One thing."

Damian waited.

"If you hate the building, you're going to have to contain yourself."

"I'll make an effort."

The building was worse than the photograph. A broken sign buzzed above the bowling alley. The exterior stairs were wet, and one landing light had gone out.

He contained himself with difficulty.

Tessa unbuckled her seat belt.

"Thank you for dinner."

"And the drive?"

"I'm deciding whether your cornering deserves gratitude."

"I was driving slowly."

"For a getaway, maybe."

He smiled. She watched him do it this time.

Then she opened the door.

He got out with her.

"Damian."

It was the first time she had used his name.

He stopped beside the hood.

"I'm just going upstairs," she said.

He looked at the unlit landing, then at her.

"Good night, Tessa."

She hesitated.

"Good night."

He waited until she was safely inside. At the top of the stairs, she turned and raised her hand.

He drove home with the window down despite the cold.