He stands there for a moment. Staring at his phone. His shoulders are tight. His jaw is still clenched.
Then he looks up at the café.
Sees me watching.
And something crosses his face—guilt, maybe? Regret? I can't tell because it's gone too fast, replaced by that neutral professional mask.
He comes back inside. Snow in his hair again. Cold air following him. He closes the door, and the café feels different now. Smaller. Or maybe just colder.
"I have to go," he says.
"Okay."
"There is—" He stops. Starts again. "Something has come up. With the team. I need to—" Another stop. "I am sorry."
"It's fine."
"It is not fine." He looks at the table where we were sitting. At the space where our hands were linked just minutes ago. "We were—I did not want to leave like this."
"It's okay. Really." I force a smile. The professional one. The invisible one. "Go. Do what you need to do."
He's studying me now. Really looking at me. And I can see him trying to read my expression, trying to figure out if I mean it, if I'm okay, if this is going to send me back into hiding.
"Tomorrow?" he asks finally.
"I'm working."
"I know. I will see you tomorrow? Seven-twenty-three?"
"Okay."
He takes a step toward me. Then stops. Like he's remembering something. Remembering that phone call maybe. Remembering whatever cold professional thing he needs to be.
He reaches for me anyway. His hand lifts toward mine—that same palm-up gesture from earlier—and then he catches himself. His hand hovers in the air between us for a second.
Then it drops.
"I—" He stops. Tries again. "I wish I did not have to go."
"I know."
"Do you?"
"Yeah." And I do. I can see it in his face—the frustration, the conflict, the way he's torn between whatever that phone call was and this moment right here. "Go. It's fine."
He looks at me for a long moment. Then: "I am not good at this."
"At what?"
"At—" He gestures between us. "Being two people at once. Being the driver and being—" He stops. "Just being Santino."
"I know."
"Do you?" His voice has gone quieter. Almost urgent. "Because I need you to know—what you saw just now, on the phone—that is not—" He makes a frustrated sound. "That is the part of my life I am trying to leave behind. But it is not easy. It follows me."
"I know," I say again.
"Tomorrow," he says. "I will explain tomorrow. About the phone call. About—everything. I promise."
