Chapter 6 - The Ride Past the Rainy Windows
He stood up for the first time since I'd walked to his table.
I'd gotten used to him sitting. Sitting made him smaller. Safer. When he pushed his chair back and stood, the suit fell straight and his shoulders blocked the pendant light for a second. I took a step back before I meant to. My bare heel hit the leg of my chair.
He noticed. He didn't reach for me. He just stopped moving.
"We go slow," he said.
The two men in black vests were still near the windows. The taller one had his hands folded. The other one held one of those little black books they bring the check in. The older man nodded to them.
"I'm taking her for tonight," he said, quiet but clear. "Just for tonight."
The taller one glanced at me, then back at him. "Sir, we need —"
"I know." He took a card out of his inside pocket and set it on the white tablecloth next to the water glasses. It made a soft tick against the plate. "My name and my number. And the building. You saw us leave together. If anyone asks, you tell them the truth."
He pulled out his wallet then. I watched his hands. He put bills inside the black book without counting loud. He didn't look hurried. That scared me a little less than hurrying would have.
"You don't have to do that," I whispered.
He looked at me. "Yes, I do."
The taller waiter bent a little toward me. "Honey, is this okay? You want to go with him?"
My mouth went dry. Everyone was looking again. I clutched the zipper of my hoodie and pulled it up to my throat.
"Just for tonight," I said.
My voice sounded small under the lights. The waiter nodded like that was enough to write down.
The older man picked up his coat from the back of his chair. It was dark and heavy. He didn't try to put it on me right away. He held it folded over his arm.
"Ready?" he asked.
I didn't say yes. I just didn't say no. He started toward the front, and I followed a half-step behind so I could see his back and the door at the same time.
Outside was louder than I thought it would be. The rain had slowed to a mist that hung under the restaurant awning. The sidewalk shone black and the city glow smeared across it in orange and blue. A long black car waited at the curb with its lights on. A man in a dark jacket stood by the back door.
My feet went cold the second I stepped off the mat. The concrete was wet and gritty. I curled my toes without thinking.
The older man saw. "Cold?" he asked.
I nodded.
He unfolded his coat. "May I?"
I stared at the coat, then at him. He waited. I gave one short nod, and he laid it over my shoulders. It smelled like wool and clean soap and the restaurant. It went down past my knees. The weight made me feel less shaky.
The driver opened the back door. Warm air came out, smelling like leather.
I stopped.
"You can sit on this side," the older man said. "I'll sit on the other. The door stays unlocked until you buckle. If you don't like it, we don't go."
I climbed in fast before I changed my mind, pulling the coat tight around my legs so my dress wouldn't ride up. The seat was warm. I slid all the way to the middle, then to the far side by the other window, and clutched my hoodie with both hands under the coat. My bare feet left wet marks on the mat.
He got in on his side and closed his door softly. He didn't crowd me. There was a whole empty seat between us.
"Seatbelt," he said, pulling his own across. It clicked. He looked at me. "Yours goes the same way. Want help?"
"I can do it," I said. My fingers shook. The buckle was cold. I got it on the second try. It pulled tight across the coat.
"Good," he said. He told the driver an address I didn't catch. Just numbers and a street name.
The car pulled away from the curb. The restaurant windows slid past, all gold light and white tablecloths. I saw the two waiters inside standing by our empty table. The taller one was picking up the card.
I watched until we turned the corner and they were gone.
We rode quiet for a while. Rain ticked on the roof. The wipers made a slow sweep, sweep. Outside, the city glowed through the wet glass — store signs, traffic lights, the tall buildings downtown all lit up. My breath fogged the window and I wiped it with my sleeve so I could keep watching.
"Your feet are still cold," he said.
I tucked them under the coat. "They're okay."
"They're red," he said. "My building is warm. There's heat in the lobby."
I didn't answer. I kept looking out.
After another block he said, "Can you tell me where your grandpa's apartment is? Not tonight. Just so I know where to — where it is."
I held the zipper tighter. "Why?"
"So if someone needs to check on it, or get your things, we know."
"It's on Marston," I said. "Above the laundromat. Number three." My throat felt tight. "He died last week."
He was quiet. I could see his reflection in the window — his gray hair, his eyes looking down at his hands.
"I'm sorry," he said.
The car slowed at a red light. A bus went by the other way, spraying water. I watched the people inside it, dry and looking at their phones.
"You said just for tonight," I said.
"Just for tonight," he repeated. "You sleep somewhere warm. Tomorrow we figure out next."
I nodded, but my stomach twisted. Tomorrow felt too big.
The car turned onto a quieter street with trees and a tall brick building with lights over the doors. A man in a green coat stood under the awning. The driver pulled in close.
"This is it," the older man said. He didn't open his door right away. "Emily. You can still say no. You can stay in the car with the driver right here where it's warm, or we go inside together. You choose."
The doorman came down the steps with an umbrella. He opened my door and I flinched back.
"It's raining," the doorman said kindly. "Watch the step."
I looked at the older man. He was waiting, hands in his lap. He hadn't moved to get out yet.
May you like
I pulled his coat tighter around my shoulders. My feet were still bare. The wet sidewalk waited beyond the car mat. I stared at the lit doorway and the warm lobby behind the glass.
I didn't get out yet.
