I take a breath and wonder if he is being genuine. The list is still right there in my head. The list of sentences I was going to say, and I realize not one of them is a question. Every one of them is a firm goodbye, and for some stupid reason I don’t want to say any of them just yet.
"Fine," I say, exasperated more at myself than at him. "What do you do for work."
He doesn't blink.
"I run my family's business," he says. "It’s international and old. Parts of it are legitimate. Parts of it aren’t. You won’t find a title or job description on paper that explains what I do. If you ask me for specifics, I’ll tell you that I don't give specifics to people I haven’t yet decided to trust. That’s not meant as an insult. It’s just the safest answer I can give you."
I stare at him.
"Are you telling me you're a criminal?"
"I’m telling you I’m a man with obligations. Some of those obligations are in the grayer areas of society. I won’t lie to you about it even if I can’t expand on it right now."
I blink at him, every word in my brain fizzling out to static and dying on my tongue.
"I told you I’d tell you the truth," he says. “What surprises you about it?”
I put my coffee down and consider his question. Why am I so shocked?
He hasn't moved. His hands are still folded in front of him on the table, the bandage on his bicep invisible under the black sweater. He is looking at me as if nothing else in this diner is happening.
The grilled cheese arrives, but I don't touch it.
"Do you know who Jason is?" I ask, carefully even though there’s no point in being careful with this man.
His jaw tightens.
"Your ex. Tell me about him," he says.
“What is there to tell?” I snap. “You obviously already know everything about me.”
I snatch up half of my grilled cheese and take a big bite.
He watches me eat it without touching his club sandwich. His eyes don’t leave my lips and I’m irritated to find myself blushing.
I take a large gulp of coffee to clear my mouth before asking, "Why me?"
He looks at me.
"You've seen me one time," I add. "For maybe six minutes, in a car accident, when you had a head injury, and I did for you what I did for everyone else in that pile-up. I was a woman with a first aid kit. So why am I sitting here?"
He looks down at his hands on the table, searching for the words.
"My father put me in rooms with frightened people when I was twelve," he says. "He wanted me to learn what fear looks like on a face so I would know what to do with it. I have spent my entire life looking at faces, Sadie.
I have never, not once, in thirty-seven years, seen a face do what yours did when I put my hand on your throat. You looked at me like I was just another person. I haven’t stopped thinking about you since that moment. I came to the clinic today because I needed to know whether it was real or whether I was inventing something that I never imagined could be real."
My mouth is dry.
"And it turns out,” he adds, “that you are real."
I narrow my eyes. I know there’s more to this than he is sharing right now. Annoyingly, he has me intrigued.
