Chapter Thirteen
thirteen
Ridley
Ridley tapped his fingers along his crossed upper arm and checked his watch again.
It’s been almost an hour. Am I being stood up?
Perhaps he’d come on a little strong? Maybe he shouldn’t have asked her to come out so late? Now that he’d thought about it, meeting at six, the earliest he could get out of the hospital, did seem more like a date than a casual dinner between acquaintances. He was so out of practice he didn’t know anymore. He hadn’t been a single man in over a decade. Or maybe his tone had been a smidgen too reproachful when she finally reached out. He hated to admit it even to himself, but he’d been so eager to hear from her. Every night as he took the car back to his hotel, he looked at the bustling city passing by his window and could clearly see how he was squandering his time here. Back when he and Thyra would travel for business, they always carved out at least one night to go out and wander during their visits. Things were different without her. Everything is different without her. Now, for this trip, it was hospital to hotel and back. Of course, he knew he could go out alone; he just didn’t want to.
The food smelled good, at least. He was fascinated by how excited that made him. After all these years, he was still afraid to admit out loud how much the food in the UK did not appeal to him. So much so that, if there weren’t other brown people cooking it, he wanted no part of it. Luckily, Thyra’s mother, Clare-Olive, still kept their refrigerator at home fully stocked with the same Caribbean dishes her daughter had. Plus, there were solid Nigerian, Indian and Moroccan options within a stone’s throw of the house; otherwise he and Bea would have starved. If his mother-in-law couldn’t make it by and it was left up to him, it’d be Pizza Hut and Chicken Cottage every night. It wasn’t that he couldn’t cook; Ridley just rarely had the time anymore.
He sighed, drumming his fingers against his knee now. The scent of savory spices filled the air, along with the stronger, more pungent smoky aroma of charred meat. Ridley’s stomach grumbled in outrage at the wait.
Lanie had picked well. Daebak Grill was trendy but comfortable, with a rustic vibe. The dimly lit but surprisingly spacious dining room was set among seemingly identical storefronts in Koreatown. Flickering candlelight set a calming mood. Shiplap walls made of reclaimed wood held ledges filled with hundreds of wine bottles and surrounded a dozen small pods separated by timber support beams. Each pod could accommodate between six to eight diners on low red leather sofas around a small charcoal grill built into an even lower dining table at the center. White twinkling lights dotted the ceiling of the room, adding to the ambience.
“Ridley?”
He looked up to see Lanie enter breathlessly.
“Sorry. They said there was some kind of signal problem on the train.” The words flowed out of her mouth like a torrent. “The Q had to run on the local track. We were being held between stations. We waited for an hour but then when it pulled into the station, there were cops waiting on the platform. Turns out it wasn’t signal issues after all. They were holding the train to give the NYPD—”
“Lanie,” Ridley stopped her, totally disinterested in this story. He held out a hand as she dropped down onto the sofa bench opposite him, before stopping himself. Last time he’d touched her, she nearly jumped out of her skin. Probably best to avoid that. “Breathe. You’re here.”
She paused.
“That’s all that matters, I mean,” he added quickly. He couldn’t believe he’d almost stepped in it again already.
She blinked as if reanimating then nodded. “Yes. Sorry.”
“It only matters that you came.” He meant it.
Seeing her there, out of breath and in a slightly rumpled plain blue sweater and black pants, it was clear she hadn’t gone home to change. Which was okay because he hadn’t either. He nodded, hoping that was understood.
The server arrived with a smile, a water glass and a menu for Lanie. But she only glanced at it for a moment before setting it and her purse aside. It was Ridley’s turn to be stunned when she looked up at him. She looked like one of those huge-eyed anime characters Bea used to draw. He’d forgotten how much he enjoyed her face. Just the pleasant symmetry and elegant shape of it, with her cute nose and the solar system of dark brown freckles that crossed its bridge and continued over her round cheeks, up over the lids of her expressive light brown eyes. He suspected she didn’t even realize how much could be so clearly read in those slightly upturned Betty Boop eyes of hers.
For instance, the fact that she was a little annoyed with him right now.
“Thanks,” he stated, to break the ice and make up for shutting her down a minute ago. “For coming out.”
She took a deep breath and settled into the seat. “Thanks for inviting me.”
She crossed one leg over the other and began tapping her foot with...impatience? Irritation? Nervousness? He only knew how he felt: self-conscious.
Have I already bollocksed this up?
“You come here often?”
Lanie cracked a smile. Ridley almost smacked himself in the forehead but exhaled when she didn’t comment on his use of the World’s Most Tired Pickup Line.
“It’s just that you look like you already know what you want when you barely looked at the menu.”
Her grin broadened, cheeks reddening as if she’d been caught. How many million times had Lanie probably heard she had a great smile? Her mouth, cheeks and eyes brightened simultaneously like what he’d said genuinely tickled her.
“I love this place and their bulgogi is delicious. I usually have the beef. I’ve figured out exactly how long to keep it on the grill to get it exactly right. Tender, not chewy.” She kissed her fingertips. “Perfect. And the marinade...” She closed her eyes as if in ecstasy.
Ridley watched raptly. Her enthusiasm animated her whole body. She leaned forward, her elbows on her knees as if sharing a secret. “I had to finally ask one of the waiters, Hyun, ’cuz it’s that good. He said, instead of the typical way, the secret to it is the pineapple juice. Apparently, it sweetens the marinade and ten—”
“Tenderizes the meat, yeah.” Ridley nodded.
“Really, you knew that?”
“Well, I assumed. Acidic substances like pineapple juice break down chemical bonds by digesting the proteins in the meat, making it more tender.”
“I’m sitting here with Bill Nye the Science Guy.” She beamed at him. “You cook?”
“Not much anymore.”
She gave him a quizzical look.
“Before medicine, my first love was food science. And I’ve done a bunch of little weekend science experiments with my daughter.”
“I’m impressed. So, you are Bill Nye. Saturdays must be fun at the Aronsen house, huh?”
“They definitely used to be.” Ridley laughed with a twinge of bitterness, sharing all the times they had to wipe experiments like Mentos and diet cola off the ceilings, or oobleck from... everywhere, after they read Dr. Suess’s Bartholomew and the Oobleck and decided to make their own. There’d been plenty of misadventures over the years, but he’d had fun introducing Bea to the easy home science of non-Newtonian fluids, like ketchup and molasses.
He could see wheels begin turning in her head. “I love non-Newtonian fluids!” Lanie enthused. “There’s just something about a fluid that can become more liquid or more solid depending on the amount of pressure applied.”
Her sudden geeky excitement was entirely sincere. This woman was full of surprises. He tried to hide his.
The server returned to place metal bowls filled with squares of tofu in chili-sesame sauce, separate plates of pickled radish, soybean sprouts and cucumber salad on the table around the grill. It all looked delicious. Ridley realized he hadn’t looked at the menu since Lanie walked in the door. He hadn’t looked at anything else since then either.
His cell phone beeped, clattering loudly as it vibrated across the wooden tabletop. “Excuse me.”
Lanie nodded, leaning back to recline against the red leather, watching.
BEAN:
Mom loved me more.
Ridley quirked an eyebrow as his fingers began typing out a reply.
RIDLEY:
Excuse me?
BEAN:
Mom loved me more. She would never have forced me to take Classical Civilizations.
RIDLEY:
She would have, but YOU chose it anyway.
Ridley glanced up at the waiter, ready to take their order. “Sorry. Gimme a sec to pick something.”
Lanie shrugged.
BEAN:
That’s you. A portrait.
Ridley snorted before glancing at the menu again, trying to multitask. But the menu suddenly seemed made up of all gibberish where English words definitely used to sit next to the Korean characters. He looked over the top of his menu at Lanie’s expectant face. “Barbecued meat?”
“Yes.” She chuckled, relaxing, head propped up on her arm. “Do you have any preferences?”
BEAN:
Dad, where are you?
Ridley’s heart unexpectedly picked up the pace.
RIDLEY:
New York
BEAN:
Haha. No. Where in NYC?
“Nope,” he answered, distracted and weirdly still drawing a big fat blank.
Lanie looked up at the server, who was still standing there, with remarkable patience considering the circumstances. There were only around ten patrons in the entire restaurant; still, the server sighed audibly, eyebrows raised, as she looked down at him.
The phone buzzed again in his hand.
BEAN:
Dad?
“I am so sorry.” It was as if Ridley was a juggler thrown too many balls to keep aloft. Had his social ineptitude really become this bad? He glanced from his phone in one hand to the menu in the other again. It was definitely an English-language menu.
Make a decision, man!
RIDLEY:
How do you know I’m not in my hotel room?
“Pick for me, would you?” He gave up, smiling apologetically at Lanie. “It’s my daughter.”
“We’ll have the beef combo,” Lanie said to their serenely tolerant server. “Ah yes, the thirteen-year-old that I remind you of?” Lanie then asked him.
BEAN:
Because you didn’t ask me WHY I’m up at midnight. Neglect. Abandonment. Dejection, c’est moi
He checked his watch. She was absolutely right. It was 1:30 in London, on a school night.
RIDLEY:
Your French is coming along I see
Ridley sighed heavily, finally registering Lanie’s words. Opening his mouth at the same time he pried his eyes away from his phone screen, his gaze grazed the length of her, sitting in quiet repose in front of him. He drank her in from the ballet flats on her feet upward, then said, “There is no planet on which I could ever confuse you with my daug—”
He stopped at her face, as one of Lanie’s eyebrows rose. His eyes returned to his phone.
RIDLEY:
Why ARE you still up at midnight?
Wait, what did I just say to her?
She was smiling. She’d been teasing him. Ridley shook his head. The phone’s vibrations tickled his hand.
BEAN:
CLASSICAL CIVILIZATIONS DAD!
RIDLEY:
Goodnight Beatrix Olive Baker-Smythe. Go to bed NOW!
BEAN:
My whole government, Dad? Really?
Ridley nearly threw the phone away from himself in an effort to concentrate on his company. He took a deep breath. “I, uh... What were we saying?”
“So, you’re headed home tomorrow?” Lanie asked, seemingly amused by all of this.
“Yes.” He sighed. “But I think I’m considering running away with the circus right this second. Is that still a thing?” He leaned back in his seat. “Or maybe joining WitSec?”
“I think you have to have witnessed a crime for that one.”
His phone vibrated yet again on the seat beside him. “In a moment, I think I might commit one. Will that count?”
He picked it up, typing quickly.
RIDLEY:
BEAN TO BED!
BEAN:
I’m not 5 anymore, Dad.
RIDLEY:
TO. BED. NOW!
BEAN:
Nite Dad.
RIDLEY:
Night love.
Ridley exhaled, finally casting the phone aside. “So, what did you order for us?”
Lanie narrowed her eyes. “The beef combo.”
Ridley didn’t have the heart nor the intestinal fortitude at that moment to tell her he tried to severely limit his red meat intake. And he’d already indulged in bacon and a burger this week.
“Looking forward to it.” He rubbed his hands together and then his stomach in a circle instead as she smiled. He really did like her smile.
“If you don’t mind me asking, who watches your daughter when you’re away?”
“Her grandparents. Her mother’s parents.” He didn’t know what he would do without Clare-Olive and Philip. Particularly in the years since they’d lost Thyra.
“And your parents...?”
“Are retired civil servants from Massachusetts, that are now living their best life as Disney Adults in a condo in St. Cloud, Florida.”
“Seriously?” Lanie laughed.
Ridley nodded. Washington “Wash” Marcus Aronsen the Third and his wife, Rosetta, were by far the oldest pair of teenage lovebirds Ridley had ever met. He adored his parents but after growing up with them, Ridley still counted himself lucky that he and his siblings managed to get to school ever and never lost all their teeth to cavities or burned their house down. Self-involved was the word he most often euphemistically used to describe them, while neglectful might have been more accurate.
“You’ve heard of Forever 21?” Ridley asked.
She nodded.
“Well, they’re kind of forever fifteen.”
Lanie’s brows creased. “Have you managed to see them recently?”
“Oh yeah.” He waved a hand. “They took Bean to Disney not long after it reopened.”
“Wow. That’s dedication.”
“You don’t know the half of it.”
It was the only way he or any of his siblings saw their parents anymore. But that wasn’t fun get-to-know-you banter.
“And you?” He turned the tables, interlacing his fingers over his knee, getting comfortable.
Ridley could swear he saw something in her face shutter at his words. Lanie’s smile didn’t exactly disappear but certainly lost wattage.
“Far less entertaining,” she said in a voice a little above a mutter. “Mom’s here in NY, Dad lives in Connecticut.”
Lanie looked positively relieved as the servers arrived, carrying platters of raw meat and sides to their table. The tension that had appeared out of nowhere eased marginally.
“So, Massachusetts?” Lanie laid a few pieces of thinly sliced brisket, from the myriad assortment of meats they’d received, directly onto the brazier with her chopsticks. The searing meat sizzled.
“Born and bred.”
“No wonder.”
“No wonder what?” He watched her flip the assortment of meat and vegetables on the brazier with meticulous care, only allowing them to brown, not burn or smoke. The scent was heavenly, the sizzling sound a melody his stomach burbled to.
“No wonder your accent is all over the place. One minute you sound like a bloke from Merry Ole England.” She put on a cockney accent so thick and horrid it made Dick Van Dyke’s accent in Mary Poppins sound like Meryl Streep’s in The Iron Lady . “The next, I swear you sound like my neighbor Jamal from up the block.”
Ridley threw his head back, laughing so hard and long that his sides hurt. He’d heard constantly from his family and American friends that his accent had gotten muddled, the implication almost always being that it was affected. This was the first time he’d heard it framed like that.
Which delighted him.
No, she delighted him.