I slide into the booth and reach for the menus that are stuck between the ketchup bottle and the napkin dispenser. They’re laminated but sticky. I set one on the table in front of me and look at the offerings. I’m not hungry, but I know I have to order something, so we don’t attract attention.
The waitress comes over and pours me a glass of water.
“I’m waiting for a friend,” I say.
“Alright,” she says, pouring a second glass and leaving it on the table. She walks away and I stare at the door, waiting for Frankie to arrive.
A moment later, he walks in, looking pale. He scans the room before locating me, hurrying over to take a seat. I’m not sure what I expected, but he looks okay. He clearly looks a little frazzled, but not to the point where he’s shaking or crying. That seems like a good start.
I stand up, pulling him into a hug. This kind of thing is delicate. I put myself in a friend’s shoes. If I were having a panic attack, what would I want someone to do? I’m going to take it slow and make sure he’s comfortable before asking questions.
He hugs me back, tucking his face into the crook of my neck. That’s a little bit more intimate than I’m ready for, but I let itslide. Now is not the time to put distance between us, and I know that he’s not trying to be aggressive.
We separate after a moment and take our seats across from one another. The waitress comes back, clearly expecting us to be ready with our order.
“Can you give us a minute, please?” Frankie asks.
“Sure,” she quips, walking away again.
“Is this place okay?” I ask Frankie. “We could go somewhere else if you like.”
“This is fine,” he says.
“Have you ever been here?” I wonder, trying to discover if it’s safe to talk.
“No,” he answers.
“Good,” I say. When he looks at me suspiciously, I rush to explain. “Doing something new helps after a panic attack.”
Frankie nods, either believing my lie or not caring enough to argue. He takes a sip of water and then looks at me imploringly. “Thank you for meeting me. I don’t know what happened.”
“It feels like a heart attack, right?” I begin.
“Yeah,” he agrees.
“I had them too, when my brother died,” I say, leaving room for him to tell me what went wrong.
“I guess it was the…studying for the bar exam,” he manages.
“Sure,” I respond, accepting what I’m sure is a cover-up. When I met him, he was studying for the bar exam. There is no way that’s what triggered the attack.
“I guess I’ve been so caught up in the repercussions of whether I would pass or not,” he continues.
“Well,” I say, turning my attention to the menu, “let’s just take a break from studying and have some lunch.”
He laughs quietly. “That sounds nice.”
The waitress comes back, and we place our order. The whole time, I’m trying to think of ways to help him come clean. If my suspicions are correct, Frankie has seen or heard something traumatic. That something could be the key to my investigation and might help me finish my article in record time. But I can’t look like I’m too eager to hear the real story.
He just picks at his food. I abandon mine halfway through, sensing that it’s not the time to really dig in. We take our leftovers to go and sit for long moments afterward, neither of us ready to leave.
“Do you want to come to my place and watch a movie?” I ask.
This is risky. I remember that I lied to him about where I live and I’ll have to explain that. I also wonder if it’s smart to reveal my true location. But I’m ninety percent sure that Frankie isn’t dangerous. No hardened criminal would act the way he is. I take a chance, following my heart. It might not be smart, but it feels right.
“Yes,” he answers definitively.
“I have something to confess,” I say as we walk out the door.
