Chapter 6 At the Café #2
text me when u get home w the deets!!!!!!!
Drishti helpfully sent an eggplant emoji. Sam texted back a bike and left the bathroom.
But instead of returning to the table she stood near the bar, half concealed by a red velvet curtain, observing William in
the booth. Their food had arrived, but he was waiting for her like a gentleman and consulting his phone, his face ghostly
in the cold white glow. There was something in his posture at that moment that spoke of vulnerability: the slight curve of
his back, or the way his hair curled over his collar. Looking at William now, Sam thought she could spot the little boy he
had once been, the profound loneliness that had led him to seek solace in a world of words in the first place. Or maybe it
was just that he didn’t know she was watching.
What was William’s deal? Everyone had one, some Achilles’ heel of the psyche.
But not all of them were catastrophic. Maybe Sam was overcorrecting.
Her first date with Hank, he’d told her outright that he struggled with alcohol but was really trying to make healthier choices, and if Sam got up and left, he’d understand.
Instead of doing that, Sam had thought: Great!
At least he admits it, so we can fix it!
There were nights she’d drunk all Hank’s vodka so he wouldn’t and then thrown up; when he started recovery, she hadn’t kept
alcohol in their home. For years she hadn’t had a glass of wine or gone out to dinner because of the temptations Hank was
trying to avoid. This evening with William felt like a refugee’s first feast after fleeing a war. Maybe Drishti was right;
maybe Sam was looking for red flags because in the past she’d set her bar so goddamned low.
Sam headed back to the table. William rose at her approach. “I tested your frites,” he said. “Just to make sure they weren’t poisoned.”
“So thoughtful of you,” said Sam.
“I’m a giver,” agreed William.
They ate then, or rather William devoured his salmon in four bites and Sam nibbled a mussel. She had never been able to eat
in front of a man she found attractive.
“Do you ever,” William said abruptly, “get as lonely as I do? With the writing life?”
Sam put her tiny fork down. Again, he’d read her mind. “Yes.”
“Let’s play round two.” William dinged his fork on his glass. “Have you been married?”
“I was,” said Sam. “I’m divorced now.”
“Amicable?”
“Yes. He’s an addict in recovery, starting his life over, and I’m very proud of him.”
William made prayer hands. “More power to him. That’s a hard road. Kids?”
“No. We tried, but the IVF didn’t catch. And given Hank’s drinking . . . maybe it was better.” Sam clinked her glass. “My
turn. You?”
“No kids. To my regret.”
“Married?”
“Nope.”
“Have you ever been married?”
“Not to the best of my knowledge,” said William.
Ping! Red flag. Commitment-phobe. Although there’d be no annoying ex to contend with.
“I was engaged once,” said William. “But . . .”
“Oh,” said Sam, remembering. She felt abashed for judging him. “I’m sorry. Your Darling.”
“Yes,” said William, his grin fading. He regarded her for a long moment. “I’d like to sit over there, okay?”
Sam’s stomach flipped. “Okay.”
William slid into her side of the booth, close, and Sam inhaled his woodsy-sweet cologne, his warm skin. “There’s a pen in
your braid,” he said in her ear, sending electric ripples down her neck.
“I always keep one there. You never know when you might need it.”
“Fair.” William tugged experimentally on the braid, and Sam gave a tiny gasp. He looked at her consideringly.
Then they were kissing, gentle at first and then not, Sam nipping William’s lower lip, William growling with recognition and
holding Sam’s head so she couldn’t move it. Sam didn’t even care at this point if there was anything wrong with him. How long
had it been since she’d been kissed like this? How long since a man’s mouth was the whole world?
Finally she pulled away. “We should stop—we’re middle-aged. And I think they want us to go.” The restaurant was empty, their
bill on the table. Sam and William stared at each other, and then William slapped his credit card on the check and carried
it over to the kitchen.
“I must away, my dear,” he said, returning to the side of the booth. He held out his hand to Sam and enfolded her in a hug,
resting his chin on her head the way he’d done at the bookstore. Again she heard his heart beating.
“Godspeed, Simone Vetiver,” he said, and released her. “More anon, okay?”
Then he was gone, nipping through the door like the White Rabbit, so quickly she didn’t see him go.
Sam stood feeling abruptly cold in the air-conditioning, her skin still damp from their passionate grappling.
Had this whole evening actually happened?
Sam touched her swollen lips, her cheeks abraded from William’s goatee.
William was, like Anne Frank, a little bundle of contradictions.
His out-of-the-blue email to her, the Darlings, his genre switching, the Virtuoso versus the vulnerable little boy in the booth.
And that delicious alpha kissing. Who was William Corwyn?
It might be a dangerous distraction at a time when she could least afford one, but Sam knew one thing: She
sure as hell intended to find out.