Page 112 of Enzo

When the waitress comes back, she seems a little stiff. A little wary. I wonder if it’s because she doesn’t believe Molly’s story, and she doesn’t want to be made a fool of.

She sets the food down quickly and we thank her. Molly starts eating her bagel, making all the appropriate noises of gratitude. I watch her, because I don’t need food. I could just sit here, watching her.

“This time tomorrow, you’ll probably be on your way to the airport,” I say.

She looks at me. I look at her.

This is it. The last supper. The last evening. I don’t know how much involvement she’ll have in the project in Chicago. I don’t know how often I’ll get to see her. But at least I know where she is.

She finishes her bagel quickly. I finish my coffee and settle the bill. We get up and start to leave. I notice that our original waitress is talking to another waitress, who does a double take at us.

I know that look.

That’s when I notice that she’s scrolling on her phone and as I walk past, and I see that she’s looking at the viral video of me in a mask.

My gut hardens and I settle my hand firmly on Molly’s lower back as I escort her outside. I put her on the inside of the sidewalk, away from the curb. Then I look around for my bodyguard, and finally spot the black SUV farther down the street, held up in traffic.

Too far away.

“What's wrong?” Molly whispers, noticing my sudden change of mood.

“I'm not sure.” I try not to look as panicked as I feel.

“Did they recognize us?”

“I don’t know.”

I try to hail a taxi.

Where are these things when you need them?

The blinding flash of the camera catches us off guard.

Molly screams.

We've been recognized.

I grab her hand and start to walk fast as I try to hail a cab.

Suddenly, she loses my hand. I glance over my shoulder to see her bending down to pick up her sunglasses.

I forget the taxi, and rush towards her, but there's another flash, and another, and another.

Where did these two fuckers come from?

Molly jumps. Suddenly one of the photographers is right there, his camera in her face, firing questions. Rage courses through me. I barge past the other photographer and step between him and Molly.

He moves around me to get to her. She instinctively backs away.

One step, then another.

My heart jolts. She's getting too close to the curb.

“Molly, stop!”

She's looking at the photographer—not behind her—and her heel comes off the curb.

“Molly!”