The man scoffs, but then his eyes dart around the room, and that’s when both he and I notice the bartender and a few other diners have stopped to watch the exchange. His cheeks flame red, and if not appropriately chagrined, it’s clear he’s embarrassed.
“C’mon, man,” Harrison says, putting his hand out to guide him to the door. Harrison mouths something to the bartender and, to my surprise, the guy lets himself be escorted out. Harrison briefly checks back in with Whitney before returning to the table.
“What the hell was that?” I say, wide-eyed.
“That is what happens when you mix an ugly divorce with alcohol. Guy reeked of Jim Beam. Bartender called him a cab.”
“Jesus,” I say. “Let’s not ever try that.”
He fastens his gaze on mine, and even though he’s worn-down and has had a shit day and he just had to rescue a patient from a drunk ex-husband, his entire focus rests squarely on me. “Not ever,” he agrees. And in that moment, our eyes locked, I see my husband, and I remember all at once how much I love him. And I wonder how I could ever forget, even for a second.
My cell buzzes on the table next to my plate and I pick it up. It’s a number I don’t recognize.
Up for a day trip to New York? We’ve got an “interview” on Friday.
I stare at the pile of bucatini drowning in Bolognese in front of me.
“Who was that?” Harrison asks.
I look up into his tired eyes. “Oliver.”
He pops a forkful of pasta in his mouth, chews and then says: “More gardening advice?”
“Not exactly.” My throat suddenly dry, I take a sip of water. Swallow. “There’s something I need to tell you.”
* * *
“What?” When I’ve finished, Harrison’s forehead is wrinkly and confused, his eyes sharp, focused. “Do you actually hear what you’re saying? The words that are coming out of your mouth.”
“Yes,” I say.
“Mia, come on. I wasn’t going to say anything, but I saw the way he was looking at you over dinner—of course he said he was dreaming about you, too. That son of a bitch. And you—you believe him?”
“Well, yes. I do. I know—believe me, Harrison—I know this sounds crazy. But, he’s telling the truth. He is.”
“How? How do you know?”
“I just do.”
He sighs and opens his mouth to say something else, but the waitress chooses that moment to drop off the check. Harrison pays it and we leave and he doesn’t speak again until we’re in our driveway, the silver moon hanging in the night sky above us.
“OK, so what now?” He turns to me. His two hands grip the steering wheel, but there’s no fight left in him. “Why are you telling me this?”
I take a deep breath. “We’re going to New York. On Friday.” I tense, sure this will set him off again, but he just exhales.
“You and Oliver.”
“Right.”
“Together.”
“Yes.”
His jaw clenches. Releases. He exhales. “What’s in New York?”
“A professor. She’s done a lot of research on dreams and we thought maybe she could help us.”
“We,” he repeats, almost under his breath. He drums his thumb on the steering wheel. And then: “Help you what?”
“I don’t know. Figure out what it means, maybe?”
He stares out the window, away from me, and scratches the side of his beard. The sound of the hairs bristling under the pads of his fingers fills the car.
“Mia.” His voice is low, quiet. “Remember after the first . . . the first baby—when you started bringing home all those things? There was that mitten and a hubcap and what else—the shoe, a Converse, I think.”
I stiffen. “That wasn’t . . . It had nothing to do with losing the baby—”
“Mia,” he says gently.
“It didn’t.”
“I’m just saying—I know you’re grieving. And grief, it can do things. To your mind.”
“This is real, Harrison.” The words come out shaky. “I know how it sounds, I do. But I need you to believe me.” And I don’t realize how much it’s true until I say it out loud.
He searches my face. I hold my breath.
“OK,” he says, finally. “OK.”
“You believe me?”
“I don’t know,” he says. “But if you need to go to New York, you should go to New York.”
I exhale. “Thank you.”
He pulls the lever to open his door and steps out into the night, so I follow suit. I walk toward the front path, his footsteps crunching the gravel behind me. And then, suddenly, his arms encircle my waist and he’s pulling me to him. I turn, leaning into his chest, tucking my head under his chin. “Dios Mia,” he breathes into my hair. His hand drops and finds mine. His fingers fiddle with my wedding band, twisting it around.
“I trust you, Mia, I do. But I don’t trust him. If that guy tries something—”
I tip my head back to look at him, a half grin on my face. “You’ll what? Beat him up? Defend my honor?” Harrison isn’t the jealous type, and he’s even less violent than he is jealous.
“No,” Harrison admits, his head down, eyes still on my ring finger. “I’d probably just glare at him really, really hard.”
I smile into his chest. And we stand there like that, under the moon, until a bird squawks somewhere in the distance.
“Shit,” I say, lifting my head.
“What?”
“I completely forgot to look for the manager! Now we’ll never know if he has a mustache or not.”
He looks down at me, eyebrow cocked, and shakes his head. “Dios Mia.”
Chapter 13
Whitney
Whitney watches out of the corner of her eye as Dr. Graydon leaves the restaurant, holding the door for his naturally pretty wife, because of course his wife is naturally pretty and of course he would hold the door for her. She doesn’t mean to be bitter—Dr. Graydon was so kind, and he saved her life—but if it wasn’t for Gabriel, to be honest, she might rather have died. Of course she would get a Grey’s Anatomy–level hot doctor when she had a perforated intestine. Where was the old balding guy that set her broken arm two years ago? Why couldn’t she have him for the problems with her “rectum” and the hot one for her arm? She knew why. Because life was unspeakably unfair.