17. Erika
— ? —
Erika
The restaurant is Maestro’s.
I stand outside for a full minute before I can make myself walk in. The last time I thought about this place, I was calling Albie from a venue downtown, asking where my husband was while I accepted an award alone.
He was here, with her, and now I’m here, and the irony isn’t lost on me.
The hostess leads me to a corner booth where Dean is already waiting, and he stands when he sees me, and that famous smile spreads across his face.
“There she is.” He kisses my cheek, pulls out my chair. “You look incredible.”
“Thank you.”
I’m wearing a dress I bought yesterday with my own money, deep burgundy, fitted but not tight, sophisticated enough for a place like this. The saleswoman said it brought out my eyes, and I’m not sure I believe her, but I liked the way it made me feel, like someone who belongs in rooms like this.
Dean orders wine without looking at the menu, French and expensive, and when it arrives he raises his glass.
“To Coming Home. And to the woman who wrote it.”
We clink glasses, and the wine is better than anything I’ve ever tasted.
“So,” he says, leaning back. “Tell me about yourself. The real you, not the bio on your book jacket.”
“There’s not much to tell.”
“I doubt that.” His blue eyes are warm and interested. “A woman who writes like you do has stories. I want to hear them.”
So I tell him, not everything, not the raw bleeding truth of the last month, but enough, meeting Kai in college, getting married young, working for my husband while writing in the margins of my life.
“And now you’re here,” he says when I finish. “Bestselling author. Film deal on the table. The world at your feet.”
“It doesn’t feel real yet.”
“It will.” He refills my wine. “That speech you gave at the ceremony. ‘Wanting to be seen.’ I haven’t stopped thinking about it.”
“It was just what came out in the moment.”
“No, it wasn’t. It was the truth.” He sets down his glass. “The empty chair. That was your husband?”
My throat tightens. “Yes.”
“And he just didn’t show up?”
“He had something more important to do.”
Dean is quiet for a moment. “His loss.”
“That seems to be the consensus.”
“Good.” He slides a folder across the table. “The option agreement. Take your time, read it over, have your lawyer look at it. But I hope you’ll say yes.”
“Why do you care so much? It’s just one book.”
“It’s not just one book. It’s the book that made me remember why I got into this business.” He holds my gaze. “I want to make things that matter. Your story matters.”
Movement catches my eye, someone approaching our table, tall and dark-haired, in the midnight-blue suit I bought him for our second anniversary. Kai. He stops at the edge of our booth, and his eyes sweep over me, over Dean, over the wine and the folder and the intimate lighting.
“Erika.” His voice is carefully neutral. “What a coincidence.”
“Is it?”
“This is one of my favorite restaurants. I eat here all the time.”
“Funny. So do I.”
A lie, and we both know it, but the way he’s looking at me, at Dean, makes me want to push.
“Dean.” I turn to my dinner companion with a sweet smile. “This is my ex-husband.”
The word does exactly what I meant it to. I watch Kai absorb it, watch the flicker of pain cross his face before he locks it down.
“Kai Channing.” He extends a hand to Dean, all perfect manners. “I’m a fan of your work.”
Dean shakes it once. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”
“All good things, I hope.”
“That would depend on who’s telling the story.”
The tension between them is thick enough to lean on, and I take a sip of my wine and let them have their moment, two men sizing each other up over a woman neither of them really knows.
“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” Kai says finally. “I just wanted to say congratulations. On the book. The film. Everything.”
“Thank you.”
“You deserve it.” His eyes find mine and hold. “You always did.”
He walks away, back to a table across the room where he has a perfect view of us, of course he does.
“Well,” Dean says mildly. “That was something.”
“I’m sorry. I had no idea he’d be here.”
“Don’t apologize. It’s a small town.” He picks up his wine. “Does it bother you? Him watching?”
I think about it. A month ago it would have made me self-conscious, worried about what Kai thought, whether I was behaving appropriately, whether I was embarrassing him. Now?
“No,” I say. “Let him watch.”
Dean’s smile widens. “I think I’m going to enjoy working with you.”
We talk about the movie, casting ideas, scenes that will translate well to screen, the tone he wants to capture, and Dean is smart and engaged and treats me like the talent, not the plus-one, and he asks my opinion and actually listens to the answers.
Under the table, his hand covers mine, warm and casual, a touch that could mean anything. Across the room, Kai sees it. I don’t pull away.
When we leave an hour later there’s a photographer outside, and the flash goes off before I can react, bright and blinding.
“First paparazzi experience?” Dean murmurs.
“Is it that obvious?”
“You’re doing great. Just keep walking.”
The valet brings his car, sleek and black and very quiet, and he opens the passenger door for me.
“Let me drive you home.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I know. But I’d like to.”
I glance back at the restaurant, and through the window I can see Kai at his table, watching us, and I get in Dean’s car.
The drive to Silver Lake is quiet and comfortable, and Dean doesn’t push or try to fill the silence with chatter, and when he pulls up outside my building he puts the car in park but doesn’t move to get out.
“Thank you for tonight,” I say. “For the movie. For everything.”
“Thank me by making this film incredible.” He smiles. “Now go get some sleep. You’ve got a career to build.”
I’m halfway out of the car when he speaks again.
“Erika.”
“Yeah?”
“For what it’s worth, I think he knows he made a mistake.” Dean’s eyes are kind. “But that doesn’t mean you owe him anything.”
I nod, close the door, and walk into my building without looking back. But my heart is racing, and I’m not sure if it’s from the photographer or the movie deal or the way Kai looked at me across that restaurant, or the way I looked back.