Julia #2
It is easier with the window there. Easier to watch pedestrians cross against traffic, a cyclist slip between cars with suicidal confidence, a woman in a purple running outfit holds a leash with a tiny dog at the end of it. Easier to pretend I am focused on the city and not on the man beside me.
Ricardo does not fill silence for the sake of it.
I'm not sure if I like that or hate that about him.
Most men, in my experience, rush to occupy empty space. With opinions. With questions. With little performances of authority or charm. Harrison could not sit in silence without filling it with something—a test or a lecture.
Ricardo just lets the silence exist.
I shift my bag slightly on my lap and look down at it because the alternative is looking at his hands. His left rests loosely against his thigh. No ring, of course. Long fingers, clean nails, the faint shadow of veins beneath olive skin.
I look back out the window.
Immediately.
“You are thinking very loudly,” he says.
I close my eyes for half a second.
“I am thinking at a completely normal volume.”
“Are you?”
“Yes.”
“Then I apologize to your thoughts.”
I glance over despite myself.
His mouth is almost smiling.
“That was terrible,” I say.
“I disagree. I did exactly what I was supposed to do.”
“And what is that?”
“Acknowledge we're in the same car together.”
My face warms.
I turn back to the window. “That sounds like strategy.”
“It was.”
“At least you admit it.”
“When the evidence is obvious, denial wastes time.”
A laugh slips out of me before I can stop it.
The driver changes lanes smoothly. The city opens briefly to a wider street, sunlight striking the windshield hard enough that I blink. Ricardo reaches toward the side panel and adjusts the shade above my window without leaning into me, without making a show of the gesture.
The light softens.
I look at him.
He has already withdrawn his hand.
“Thank you,” I say.
He keeps doing that. Helping without turning me into someone helpless. Opening a door without making it symbolic. Adjusting the shade because the sun was in my eyes, not because I need rescuing from daylight.
I never knew there was a difference before.
His phone vibrates once in his pocket. He checks the screen, reads whatever appears, and types a short response.
“Mario,” he says briefly while slipping the phone away. “He asked whether I had left with you.”
My stomach dips. “Oh?”
“I said yes.”
“That’s all?”
“That is all he asked,” he says, amused.
“Right. Of course,” I say, my face warming more.
There is silence for a moment, then Ricardo says, “Mario trusts you.”
My fingers tighten around the strap of my bag. The reaction is instant, instinctive.
“He barely knows me.”
“He knows competence when he sees it.”
I stare out at the traffic.
“That's different than trust,” I say quietly.
“Competence is where trust begins.”
I look over at him.
Ricardo’s attention is on me now, direct and unnerving. It makes me want to squirm.
“He does not hand important work to just anyone,” he says. “He hands it to people he knows will get it done.”
My throat tightens.
I look down at my bag, at the file tucked safely inside. “It’s a signature.”
“It is a signature he needs. His timeline. His company. His name attached to whatever happens next.” His voice lowers slightly. “He gave it to you.”
I press my thumb against the leather strap. “You make it sound heavy.”
“You know the weight already,” he says. “I am simply saying you are carrying it well.”
The SUV glides through traffic around us. The driver remains silent. The city continues beyond the glass. All of it feels suddenly far away.
I clear my throat. “Well, thank you. That means a lot.”
“You are so often surprised by praise,” he says.
My pulse jumps, and a million excuses come to mind, none of them true.
But before I can decide on one, he continues, “You shouldn’t be.”
The SUV turns onto a quieter road lined with old houses set back behind hedges and iron gates.
Wealth looks very different, even from the road.
Houses are more hidden. No glass towers or glowing signs.
Just manicured lawns, brick walls, mature trees, and long driveways.
The noises of the city are nowhere to be found.
Ricardo glances at me. “You dislike places like this.”
I watch a stone wall pass beside the road. “I grew up in a place like that.”
“Which means you understand it.”
“I dislike what places like this do to people.”
“What do they do?”
“They make people confuse access with virtue.” I adjust my bag on my lap. “If you are inside, you must deserve to be inside. And if someone else is outside, there must be a reason.”
Ricardo is quiet.
I immediately wonder whether I have said too much. Too blunt. Too personal. Too full of the kind of judgment people in my parents’ world call unbecoming when it comes from a woman and insight when it comes from a man.
Then Ricardo says, “That is a very accurate indictment of country clubs.”
I look over.
His expression is serious, but there is amusement at the edge of his mouth.
“You are an esteemed member,” I remind him.
“I did not say I was innocent.”
The honesty makes me smile despite myself.
“Why do you belong, then?”
“Business. Access. Convenience.”
“At least you’re honest.”
“As I’ve told you before, I try to be.”
The echo of our conversation outside Mario’s office brushes over us.
He hears it too. I can tell because his gaze shifts briefly to my mouth, then returns to my eyes with enough restraint to make my hands still in my lap.
The air charges between us.
Outside, the road curves beneath an arch of trees. Sunlight breaks through in scattered pieces across the glass, flickering over his face, his hand, my knees.
The SUV slows at a gatehouse set into a low stone wall. Quickly, I turn back to the window.
A uniformed attendant steps forward, and the driver lowers the window to give Ricardo’s name. A moment later, the gate opens.
We continue up a long drive bordered by old trees and a wide sweep of lawn that looks unnaturally green. The clubhouse appears gradually, pale stone and dark shutters, broad terraces, striped awnings, flower beds professionally arranged.
The Halstead Club.
The SUV rolls beneath the porte cochere and comes to a smooth stop.
The driver steps out.
Through the window, an attendant in a navy blazer moves toward my door.
Ricardo’s gaze remains on mine for one second longer.
“Ready?” he asks.
I draw a breath, lift my chin, and pick up my bag.
“Yes.”