Chapter 7 - The Table by the Chandeliers
I hadn't been back inside that dining room since the walk-through that afternoon, and at night it was a different place entirely. The chandeliers were turned low, the light catching in the crystal and throwing it soft across the white tablecloths. A host in a black jacket led us past the other diners to a corner table, pulled out Olivia's chair, and laid the napkins across our laps like we belonged there.
I was wearing the black shirt I'd changed into after my shift. Olivia was wearing a dark dress, not the sequined gown from the deck, her hair pulled back over one shoulder. Her bag sat on the empty chair beside her. She looked around once, at the sconces, at the quiet men in suits at the other tables, at the servers moving without hurrying.
"This is nice," she said. "Did you pick it?"
"The manager suggested it," I said. It was true enough. I didn't tell her I'd stood in this same room at four o'clock checking the spacing between tables.
The server brought water and bread and recited specials I already knew. Olivia ordered the salmon. I ordered the same because I wasn't hungry enough to decide. She ate slowly, cutting small pieces, setting her fork down between bites. Guarded the way she always got when she didn't want to be read.
For a while we talked about safe things. Her hours at the gallery. The traffic on the highway getting downtown. A friend's apartment that had flooded. I asked questions and let her answer. I kept my hands on the table when I wasn't eating. I wasn't going to reach across it.
"You look tired," she said, studying me.
"Long day," I said.
"You work here now?"
"For the company that runs the place," I said. "Mostly operations. Staffing, vendors, walk-throughs."
She nodded like that explained the shirt. "You always were good at fixing things behind the scenes."
I smiled a little. "Someone has to check the chandelier bulbs."
That got a short laugh out of her, then it faded. She looked down at her plate, then back up at the room. A couple two tables over laughed quietly over wine. A busboy cleared plates without a sound. Everything in here was designed to make you lower your voice.
"Do you remember," she said, "that Italian place off the county road? With the plastic menus?"
"With the garlic knots," I said.
"We went there after my show. You paid with cash and counted it twice at the parking lot."
I remembered the cracked vinyl booth and the way she'd wiped her hands and said she wanted something better someday. I didn't say that part.
"It was good that night," I said.
She held my eyes a second too long, then looked away toward the far wall. I followed her glance. The gold elevator doors were closed at the end of the room, reflecting the chandelier light in a dull band. A server walked past them with a tray and didn't look twice.
"This place must cost a fortune," she said quietly.
I poured more water from the bottle on the table. "It's not my money."
"Still." She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. I saw the familiar drop earring catch the light. "You seem comfortable here."
I thought about the deck at sunset, the ring between my fingers, the sound of her shoes on the wood. I thought about how hard I'd worked not to call after her. I kept my breathing even.
"I'm learning to be," I said.
The server came back to check on us. Olivia asked for another minute with her wine. I said we were fine. When he left, she folded her napkin and set it beside her plate, then unfolded it again.
"Ethan," she said. "I asked you to dinner because —"
May you like
She stopped. I waited. I wasn't going to finish it for her. The room hummed around us, glasses and low voices and the soft clink from the kitchen door.
Then from the far end of the room, behind us, came a clear chime.
