Thirteen

They talked throughout the afternoon, switching to coffee after the second or third drink. “I have to drive,” Emily said by way of explanation. Trent nodded, and switched, he said, out of solidarity.

They kept the conversation light, pretending that they had just met. They discussed careers, and she asked him lots of questions about music, the business, and touring. She knew it was as much to keep the spotlight off herself, but, despite their newfound comfort with each other, Emily still felt she wasn’t ready to share her life story yet. In actuality, she had never discussed Thomas’s death with anyone, Ellen excepted, and she wasn’t sure she could trust herself to tell the story calmly and without tears. In one way, it seemed as if as long as she refrained from speaking about him, he was somehow less of a factor in what looked like it could become something new and interesting. In any event, she continued to steer the conversation toward Trent, who answered her questions matter-of-factly, with none of the arrogance that had so put her off before.

When they finally emerged from the pub, blinking in the slanting late-afternoon sunlight, Emily knew a lot about Trent. She knew he had been married for three years, and that his wife had filed for divorce some two years back, after telling him she had met another man while Trent was out on tour. “Blindsided me,” he said sadly. “I had no idea it was coming. I thought everything was great.”

Emily murmured her sympathies, and asked about kids. “Nope, none,” he replied, regret evident in his voice. “I guess it was for the best.”

Although it was a natural opening for Emily to tell him about her two, he didn’t ask, and she chose not to offer the information.

They got into Emily’s car and started driving. “Where am I taking you?” she asked, realizing that she didn’t know where he was staying. He named a large downtown hotel. As they drove, in companionable silence, she felt him watching her.

“What?” she said, suppressing an involuntary giggle.

“You are good, you know that?” he said.

“What do you mean?” she asked, innocently.

“What I mean is, we just spent the entire afternoon talking, and I still don’t know a thing about you,” he said.

“Well,” she started, and couldn’t think of anything to say.

They pulled up in front of the hotel. “You owe me,” he said playfully.

“Owe you?” she repeated inanely, self-consciously feeling like a parrot.

“Yes. You owe me some details.”

On an impulse, she reached into her purse and found a scrap of paper and a pen. She scribbled her cell phone number down and gave it to him. “Call me. We’ll negotiate a settlement,” she said laughing to ease the slight tension.

He took the number and his fingers brushed hers. He took her chin in his hand and looked her in the eye. “You said you had baggage,” he said, and her stomach flipped. She felt heat from his touch, and had the sense that he could see inside and knew everything. “I can wait until you’re ready.”

He got out and slammed the door, then leaned back in through the open window. “Thanks,” he said, waving the paper with her number on it.

Her insides melted again. Not knowing what else to say, she said, “Thanks for the drink.”

He smiled and extracted his broad shoulders from the car window. He waved, and disappeared into the hotel.