23. Candlelight and Shadows
CANDLELIGHT AND SHADOWS
CHARLIE
I ’ve been dreaming about my picnic date with Owen all day.
Okay, maybe not all day. I did run support on a mission to scan a briefcase during a staged elevator malfunction in Hong Kong that Miles and Kella did together.
But whenever I wasn’t decoding the elevator’s operating system, which—fun fact—was entirely in Cantonese and had a font I’m convinced was Comic Sans, or perfectly timing a power surge in the hotel to stall the elevator right when Miles sneezed so he could get a scan of the briefcase, I was thinking about seeing Owen.
Owen said he just barely got home from work in time to take a quick shower before our date, and I just got home in time to change into jeans and a sweater, so that worked out perfectly. I mean, as perfectly as “very nearly late” can be .
But we are both ready to just leave everything behind and enjoy tonight.
Owen says he already has everything we need waiting at the theater except the food, which he already ordered from Board & Butter, a new restaurant only a block away from the theater.
He parks his truck near the restaurant, and after we pick up the bag of food, we walk to a coffee shop closer to the theater to get Italian sodas.
It always amazes me that, in a public place, other people can just be in their own world instead of scanning the faces of everyone they’re passing by.
Or memorizing who is in the general vicinity, so if that same person shows up somewhere else, they’ll know to be cautious.
Looking for any suspicious actions. Keeping an eye out for any danger.
It’s not just Owen who can walk down the street without a care. I’ve noticed it with friends, too. They all can just walk, blissfully assuming that nothing will happen.
I know it’s a spy thing because everyone else in my family keeps a constant eye out for danger, too.
And I’m sure that being on comms and video with Jace while he’s on a mission makes me constantly keep an eye out even more, since he’s quite often around danger.
It means it’s extra important for me to also watch for possible issues.
All of Owen’s crew has gone home for the day, and the place is locked up, so Owen opens the front doors with his keys and locks them behind him, then leads us up the curving staircase.
There are only a couple of lights on here and there that I’m guessing stay on during the night to deter thieves, and there’s also enough light filtering through high windows to see just fine.
It’s all I can do to keep from asking Owen to take a quick lap through the building with me just to check for danger first. I tell that part of my brain that it can chill out already, because Owen does that before he leaves each day.
Besides, I’m with Owen. The guy who would wake from a deep sleep to protect me from an intruder, wielding nothing more than a powerless drill. I am safe with him.
It’s only been a week and a half since I last saw this place, but so much has been done since then. No part is completed, yet—everything is still in some state of unfinished construction. It’s comforting. It means it’s going to be a while before Owen moves on to the next project.
The upstairs is open to the theater, with the exception of the walls and doors for the four balcony boxes. We go into one of them, and Owen closes the door behind us. He’s got a picnic blanket spread on the floor, with candles in the middle.
“Owen, this is perfect!”
“Yeah?” he asks as he sets the bag of food on the blanket .
“It’s very much the opposite of our wedding date, and I love it.
” I walk over to the edge of the balcony box where the wall is only maybe two-and-a-half feet tall, and I look out over the open theater.
Owen steps up next to me, wrapping an arm around my waist, and I snuggle into him as he tells all about the area where the seats will be below, about the stage, about all the ornamentation throughout.
The way he talks about it makes it feel almost magical.
“You really do love this place, don’t you?”
“I really do. I think a lot about the people who built it, especially the guy who was in my position originally.
I imagine him having a grand vision of what he wanted this place to be and having to figure out how to create exactly what he pictured.
And about what he wanted people to feel and experience as they walked inside.
“I’ve read everything on the original designer-slash-project manager that I could find.
And I came across pictures of the crew, too—they had all stopped working to gather for the cameraman, tools still in hand.
I looked closely at the faces of each of them and wondered what they might be like and what brought them to this project.
Was it simply work that was available in their area?
Did they seek it out? What were their lives like? ”
Owen shakes his head. “I’m standing on the shoulders of giants as I rebuild this. I have the benefit of largely knowing what the building is supposed to look like when it’s restored. Those guys were building from the ground up. None of it had been created. They just went off this one man’s vision.”
I smile at Owen, soaking in the passion he has for this place.
“And they didn’t even have all the tools at their disposal that we have now. They did everything the hard way, and I have so much respect for those guys. I hope that when I’m finished, this place will be something they’d be proud of.”
I give him a kiss. “I know they will be. Your grandpa, too.”
He smiles, then motions out to the auditorium area. “He was sitting somewhere right down there when he first met my grandma. If it weren’t for this place, me, my sister, my dad—none of us would be here.”
“Well, I hope the original builders know they accidentally created the cutest love story sequel.” When Owen laughs, I add, “And if the building starts randomly playing love songs through the speakers, I’m blaming your grandpa’s ghost.”
We sit on the blanket, and he starts pulling food items from the bag. “This,” he says as he takes the lid off a covered container, “is their Charcuterie-for-Two box.”
It has meats, cheeses, olives, crackers, fancy pickles, and nuts, all arranged adorably. Then he pulls out a mini freshly-baked baguette, a little container of some kind of fancy butter, one of fig jam, and two jars with dessert—a chocolate mousse and a crème br?lée.
We are sitting on a blanket in a balcony meant to watch a musical or an opera in a theater we have all to ourselves, with this cute and fun meal.
And we are totally cute and fun as we eat it, too.
Feeding each other, laughing, making interesting combinations to test out, all of it.
(Some combinations are so tasty. Others…
let’s just say that although elements of bleu cheese, green olive, sweet pickled onion, and fig jam might sound like they could pair well, put them all together on a cracker, and it’s pure palate chaos. Zero out of ten, do not recommend.)
And we chat about everything under the sun as we eat.
Or, I guess under the candlelight. It’s starting to get fairly dark outside, and since we’re down on the floor in this balcony box, the candles are providing most of the light.
It’s so amazing being in our own world inside this little bubble. It’s like no worries exist here.
Well, okay, there are worries. For one, it’s getting dark, and this is a fairly big place with lots of rooms, and it’s not entirely familiar to me, especially in the dark. But I’m with Owen, so it’s okay.
And there’s another familiar fear that arises, and without even meaning to, I’ve voiced it. “You keep doing so many things for me, and I haven’t been doing anything for you.” Why is he even going to want to keep this relationship going if I don’t offer enough?
He gets a really concerned look on his face and sets down the jar he just put the lid on.
“Charlie, do you think that you have to do things for me in order for me to like you?” He cups my face with his hands, his eyes focused on mine in that way that makes it feel like he’s seeing right into me, and says, “I love spending time with you. You’re not a Swiss Army knife, Charlie.
You’re not a tool that I like having near because it’s helpful.
You don’t have to do anything for me in order for me to like you. I like you simply because you’re you.”
He looks so sincere that it chokes me up a bit.
I don’t have time to respond, though, because a movement catches our eyes, and we turn to look out over the top of the balcony box wall to the theater below, and we see a man in dark clothes who is moving stealthily.
I immediately freeze, but I’m quickly pulled out of it because Owen’s first reaction is to move to get up.
I pull him down, shake my head, put a finger up to my lips, and then I blow out the candles.
In a quiet but intense voice, Owen says, “We’re supposed to be safe in here, and that guy broke in! I need to go do something. I have to confront him.”
“No, just stay here.” I can tell that adrenaline is coursing through Owen, and he’s feeling a strong need to act, but I desperately need him by me. Safe.
“What if he comes up here? I’m supposed to protect you and this place.”
“He’s not going to come up here. Please .
” My own heart is beating so fast, and I can’t stop thinking about that time when I was three in the park and a man just picked me up and carried me away.
And the time when things looked like they were going to get intense with the man at the café when I was eleven, and my mom told the people in line to protect me.