We drive the four blocks to Morretti's in companionable silence, and that small mercy's the first thing he's done all evening that makes me like him.
Morretti's is the place at the end of the harbor pier the tourists go to when they want to feel like they've eaten somewhere with a view. White tablecloths, real candles, a wine list bound in leather. A guy in a vest folding napkins behind a cherrywood host stand. It opens for the season and closes the day after the last cruise ship leaves in October. Locals don't come here because the menu costs three times what it should and the chef doesn't know how to handle Dungeness crab.
Sal'd rather drink turpentine than eat at Morretti's. The thought makes me want to laugh.
The hostess walks us to a window table. Tyler pulls my chair out before the waiter can, and I sit and let him, because that's what tonight's supposed to be: letting things happen, letting a nice man do nice things, letting myself be the kind of woman who gets taken to dinner instead of the kind who gets fucked against her kitchen wall and left in bed before dawn.
Tyler shakes a napkin onto his lap and looks across the table at me with that easy, open smile.
"So. How does it feel to be on the other side of the bar for once?"
"Strange."
"Strange how?"
"I don't know what to do with my hands."
He laughs. "Drink something. That's what I do."
The waiter arrives. Tyler orders a bottle of Sancerre when I tell him I'd rather a white than a red and doesn't make a thing of the price. He raises his glass.
"To your night off."
"To not pulling pints."
We touch glasses. The wine's good, bright and a little flinty, a wine that tastes like a coastline. I let myself enjoy it.
Tyler's the kind of man my mother would have approved of, and that's how I know I'm in trouble.He's also the kind of man who's going to want the whole thing one day. Wife. House. Kids. Three weeks in and I can see it on him, the way he asks about my work, the way he looks at me like I'm a future he's started sketching. I can give him most of what he wants. I can't give him the third one on that list, and he doesn't know it yet, I'm not the woman he should be sitting across from if that's what he's after.He leans forward on his forearms. His eyes don't leave mine.When the waiter comes back with specials, he waits for me to order first.
"So." He sets his glass down. "You take photographs."
"Sometimes."
"More than sometimes. You've got your camera out every time I see you outside the bar. Why haven't you shown me any, or told me much about it?"
"You haven't asked."
"Well, I'm asking now. Tell me about it."
I should change the subject but I take a long swallow of wine instead, and what comes out of my mouth surprises me.
"I like shooting the harbor. The docks at three in the morning when the boats come in. The waitresses at Betty's on the four-to-twelve shift. The MC, when they let me. I shot the Toy Run in December, Knox and Finn and the rest of them riding in with kids' toys piled three deep in the trucks behind. Nightfall Cove things. Things people who only come here in summer don't see."
"Can I see some?"
"Maybe another night. I haven't shown anyone in two years."
He nods, accepts it and doesn't push. Another point in his favour, and I'm starting to think the points are stacking up in a way I'm going to have to do something about.
I haven't shown my photographs to anyone in two years except Sal, who grunts and pours me a shot, and Sarah, who saw three prints I'd taped to my kitchen wall and asked if she could buy one for Knox's office. I never offered them to Rex. Not once. Six months of Rex's hands on my body and I never showed him a single frame, because handing Rex a piece of me always felt like loading a gun and giving it to a man who couldn't promise he wouldn't fire.
Tyler's sitting across from me asking the question Rex never asked. The fact that I almost want to answer should tell me something.
I drink more wine.
The food comes. Risotto for me, scallops for him, plates arranged like the chef thinks he's being painted by a Dutch master. I pick at the rice and watch the candle throw warm light across Tyler's cheekbones, and the photographer in me clocks the composition before the rest of me catches up. Soft top light, candle as a kicker on his jaw, dark window swallowing the background. A nice composition.
The shot's over his shoulder.
