“Hi,” I reply.
“How was your day?” he asks.
“Good.” I straighten my shoulders and offer up the bottle. “Do you want a drink?”
“Sure.” He gets another glass out of his cupboard and comes over to sit beside me at the bar.
He doesn’t hug me, nor did I expect him to, but his nearness alone has every nerve ending in my body pulling toward him. It’s an effort to act like nothing has happened, but technically, nothing has. He has no idea how heartbroken his departure left me. It’s a small mercy.
I pour wine into his glass and slide it toward him along the countertop.
“I saw your driver came second in the championship,” I say, wondering if I can force things back to the way they were, if moving forward is not an option. “Congratulations.” I clink his glass as he picks it up.
“Thanks,” he replies with a small smile.
“Bet he would have won if you hadn’t taken the time off,” I joke.
“Don’t.” His quiet laugh warms my blood. “Ernie keeps saying the same thing.”
That’s the name of his driver.
“Do you get on with him?” I ask, trying to appear unaffected, as though my whole body isnotaching with longing.
“Yeah, he’s all right. He’s got a bit of growing up to do, but he’s quick. He’ll get there. Did you make it to Circle Centre Mall?”
I shake my head. “I didn’t come here to go shopping. I was catching up with Dean.”
“Dean?” He’s perplexed. “My friend Dean?”
“I thought he might have mentioned it to you. He has a position coming up at his practice. He wondered if I might be interested.”
“His practice? Here? In Indy?”
I nod.
I don’t know what to make of the look on his face. His eyes flare wide and he turns away from me, staring across his kitchen at the wall.
“You would consider moving to America?” he asks in a detached monotone, his jaw tensing.
“Why not?”
Why does he seem so unnerved?
“Actually, I’m going to go take a shower.” He slides off his stool and leaves his glass where it is. “Are you hungry?” he calls over his shoulder, and I sense he’s making an effort to sound normal.
“I am a bit.”
“I’ll be quick. Leave in ten?”
“Sounds good.”
We walk to the restaurant, a German place called the Rathskeller, which is in the basement of an ornate nineteenth-century theater building only a few minutes away fromAnders’s apartment. Anders tells me it’s the city’s oldest restaurant still in operation today and it’s like nowhere I’ve ever been. There’s a quaint formal dining room that has the feel of an old Bavarian inn about it, and outside is a biergarten where they often have live music.
We sit in the lively Kellerbar, where multiple moose heads look down at us from the walls and old-fashioned medieval castle banners hang from the high wooden ceiling. Our server leads us to a cozy table for two that’s set against a rough stone-clad wall.
“Another great place you’ve taken me to,” I say warmly.
“There’s a server here named Wayne who has the most incredible memory. A buddy of mine who went to live abroad came back after eight years and Wayne brought over the German beer he used to like drinking, as well as the loaded fries he loved, without him even asking.”
