“Thank you, Graham,” Noah said, his voice even. I marveled at his ability to go from seemingly about to lose it to being calm and in control.
“See?” I pressed as soon as Graham was gone. “Do you see?”
“Do I see what, Charlotte?” He’d folded his hands in his lap, seemingly not hungry, either.
“Do you see how hard it becomes to believe you? You were just about to get upset, and then the waiter comes in and you’re somehow able to tamp that down, like it’s nothing.”
“And you think this makes me a killer?”
“I think it makes you a person who’s able to turn their emotions on and off.”
“And this makes me a bad person?”
“Stop trying to talk to me like a lawyer!” I said, balling my fists up in my lap and struggling to keep control of my emotions. I took a sip of the wine Graham had set in front of me, hoping it might take the edge off my nerves. It was smooth and crisp going down, and I took another big gulp, letting the alcohol warm me as it moved down my throat.
“Then stop interrogating me like one,” he said. He sighed and leaned forward. “Look, did you ever stop to think that maybe the fact that I’m able to hide my emotions isn’t some deep character flaw or personality disorder? That maybe it’s something I’ve had to learn to do to survive?”
“No!” I said. “No, I haven’t ever stopped to think about that, because you’ve never told me that. You’ve never told me anything.”
“And I explained to you why that is.”
“No, you haven’t.” My voice was rising, and I realized how ridiculously absurd it was to be having a conversation like this in such a fancy restaurant, with a bottle of wine that probably cost more than my rent sitting in front of me, with a delicious meal set out in front of us. It was a perfect metaphor for what was going on between us – everything was supposed to be perfect, I wanted everything to be perfect, but everything was so broken beneath the surface that it was impossible.
“Yes, Charlotte, I have explained it to you. I’ve told you about my difficulties when it comes to getting close to people.”
“No.” I shook my head. “All you’ve said is that you have a hard time getting close to people, because you’ve lost people. You never told me how you lost people, or what happened to make you the way you are.”
His eyes blazed a warning to me across the table, telling me not to go there. I was pushing him, and he didn’t like it. But I was past the point of caring. Why should I have had to let my guard down with him, push all my barriers down sexually and emotionally, while he could just decide something was too much for him and shut me out?
“What happened to you when you were younger, Noah?” I asked. “What’s in your juvenile record?”
If he was surprised I knew about it, he didn’t show it. “I’m not discussing that, Charlotte.”
“Yes, you are!” I said. “You’re going to discuss it if you expect me to be able to help you.”
“You think I want your help? Like I’m so damaged that I need you to save me? You think I’m that fucked up, Charlotte?”
“No!” I said. “But I wouldn’t know, because you won’t tell me anything.”
“What do you want me to say?” he asked, pushing his chair back from the table angrily and jumping to his feet. “You want me to tell you what’s in that record? How I got arrested for assault when I was seventeen? How my father was beating my mother up so bad that I had to take a bat to his knees? That I broke the motherfucker’s knees, Charlotte, that he ended up in the hospital? That my mother and brother both turned on me, protected my father, said it wasn’t self-defense? Do you want to hear about that shit, Charlotte? Because I sure as fuck don’t want to talk about it.”
He grabbed the table and picked it up, then dropped it, slamming it against the floor angrily. Water sloshed out of his glass, and my wine tipped over, spilling all over the tablecloth, leaving an angry red stain.
But Noah didn’t stop. He picked up the table and dropped it again. And again. And again.
I flinched each time it hit the floor, flinched each time the sound echoed through the room. When he was done, he stood there, breathing heavily, and I could see the anguish in his eyes.
It was different than the other times he’d let his guard down in front of me. This was more raw, more real, the pain of a man who’d done his best to cover up his sins and bad memories at all costs.
“Noah,” I said. “I didn’t – ”
“Don’t,” he said. And then he was walking away from the table toward the back of the restaurant, disappearing down the hallway.
I sat there for a moment, not realizing I was crying until I felt a tear hit my lips and tasted the salt. I took in a shuddering breath, then stood up and moved toward the back hall.
There were two heavy oak doors off the corridor, one of them marked W and one marked M.
I stood in front of the men’s room and put my ear to the door. I could hear the faint sound of water running. I tried the knob, but it was locked.
I knocked. “Noah?” I asked. “Are you okay?”
There was no answer, and I knocked again, louder this time. “Noah!”
Still no answer.
The water shut off, but the door didn’t open.
“Please,” I called. “I’m sorry I pushed you.”
A second later, the knob turned, and Noah appeared. His eyes met mine, the two of us just staring at each other. I felt powerfully connected to him, even though we’d just had a fight, if you could even call it that.
He didn’t say anything, just stared at me.
I felt like I was hanging on the edge of a cliff, ready to fall off and head down into the canyon below. I felt like I could save myself if I just knew what to say.
You do know what to say.
I swallowed. “I need to be punished,” I said softly.
He raised his chin, his eyes questioning.
“I should have trusted you,” I said, reaching out and touching his arm softly. “I want to trust you.”
He opened the door and I slipped inside.
He shut the door and locked it, the click of the bolt echoing through the silent room. I thought of the waiters and waitresses out there, coming back to our table to see if we needed anything else. They’d find Noah and I gone, our table a mess of spilled wine and disheveled silverware.
They’ll know you’re in the bathroom with him.
I wondered if he’d brought other women in here, if the waiters and waitresses would be surprised to know what we were doing, or if they’d think it was normal.
But I took those thoughts and wrestled them to the ground, pushing them out of my mind. If I thought too hard about what I was doing, I wasn’t going to do it.
And I was sick of thinking. Right now all I wanted to do was feel.
Noah stood with his back to the door, his arms crossed over his broad chest. And then, suddenly, so quick I wasn’t even sure it was happening, he was on me, lifting me up and setting me down on the counter that ran the length of the room. He pushed his mouth into mine, his tongue entering my mouth, his hands grabbing at my hair.
He kissed me hungrily, his mouth searching, looking for answers neither one of us could give.