I push the hood of my raincoat off my head and shrug it down over my shoulders, hanging it on the coat rack just inside the doors. Repositioning my purse, I look around for Warren. I don’t see him, but Shannon catches my eye. She’s leaning against a pillar, watching me.
I grumble to myself as I make my way over to her. Why wouldn’t she just call out to me when she saw me looking around?
“Warren’s this way,” she says as I approach, glancing around the lobby. She pivots and beckons me with a hand.
My eyes narrow. What’s with the cloak and dagger behavior?
She leads me into one of the hotel’s restaurants. It’s an upscale place, white linen napkins folded smartly and real china. My jean shorts and damp t-shirt are hardly appropriate attire. Ahead of Shannon, I spot Warren’s figure, seated at a table by the glass wall, in full view of half the lobby. It’s an odd choice of table. Especially when so many others are available.
Not that it matters. We don’t need privacy. Or maybe we do. I’m not sure how this conversation is going to go.
“I see him, Shannon. Thanks.”Beat it, you mean person.
“Addison, hi.” Warren stands as I approach. He brushes a kiss onto my cheek. “You look lovely.”
“Warren, I thought you wanted to talk?” I take in his slacks, his collared shirt and dress shoes.
“I do.” He gestures at the table. “Can we eat dinner and talk at the same time?”
I sit without answering, letting the action do the speaking for me. And then I see the table. Pictures of us, printed to look like Polaroids, in various spots around the table, and all pointed in my direction.
I lift up the one of us at the beach on Lake Michigan, studying it. Warren had wrapped his arms around my middle, lifting me. My head is thrown back in laughter. One of his friends snapped the photo.
Around the table, there we are, little pieces of evidence to prove Warren’s case. He’s fighting so damn hard.
A short candle sits in the center of the table, its flame flickering over the plains of Warren’s face. The restaurant lights are turned down low, juxtaposed with the brighter lights of the lobby on the other side of the wall. I feel like an animal on display.
“Do you remember that day?” Warren lightly touches the top of the photo I’m holding.
“Of course.” I haven’t forgotten any of our days.
A server comes to take our drink order. Warren orders a bottle of wine, one he knows I like. Another piece of evidence.See how I remember what you like to drink?
He watches me, silent, as I piece through the other pictures, like taking a shovel to our past. Only right now, I don’t have to dig; everything sits on the surface, ready and waiting to be reclaimed.
The server comes back, brandishing the bottle and presenting it to Warren. He waves his hand, expediting the presentation. The server pours my glass, then Warren’s.
I take a big drink, an attempt to calm my nerves. I came here to tell Warren about Brady.
Warren reaches across the table, his fingers curling over the top of the palm I’ve flattened against the starched tablecloth.
“Addison, I—”
I shake my head. “Warren, please. I need to tell you something.” The heat of his fingers burns into my skin as he brushes them back and forth across my palm. Taking a deep breath, I say, “I know you said that these past ten months are a black hole for our relationship, that all is forgiven and forgotten. But I have to tell you about someone.”
“I met Brady today.”
My head flies back as if slapped. “Where?”
Warren glances out to a cluster of chairs off to the side of the lobby, then back to me. “Here. He was reading a paper. I sat down nearby, not knowing who he was. Somehow, he knew who I was. He introduced himself to me.”
I squeeze my eyes tight, trying to wrap my brain around what Warren’s saying. Questions scurry through my mind, but they aren’t the kind I can ask him.How was Brady? Did he look okay?
“What else?” I ask, forcing myself to look across the table.
“He told me he understood the predicament we’re in, and that he doesn’t want to get in the way of two people who belong together. He said he’d bow out.”
“Oh,” I whisper, my hand coming up to touch my throat, sliding down over my collarbone. I don’t know why I’m touching myself, other than to check that this is really happening. I’m really here, learning that Brady gallantly gave me up because he thought he was doing what was best for me.
