Ricardo #3
Here, across from me, she has just threatened a man in her imagination, ordered fries with conviction, and laughed at me while sipping on a Coke.
I prefer this version.
God help me, I prefer it too much.
Julia must see something on my face, because her smile fades by half.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“That is absolutely not nothing.”
I take my glass of sparkling water and give myself a moment. “You are easier to read when you are angry.”
“I’m not sure that’s a compliment.”
“It is an observation.”
“Convenient. Men love calling things observations when they know they might get in trouble for saying them.”
A laugh moves through me before I can stop it.
Her eyes brighten at the sound, and that is dangerous. Very dangerous territory.
I like that she can make me laugh.
I'm not sure I like that she likes it.
“See?” she says. “You can be less terrifying when properly motivated.”
“I was not aware I was terrifying.”
“Oh, I think you're perfectly aware of it,” she says on a laugh.
I look at her across the table, at the flush still high in her cheeks, the loosened grip on her glass, the mouth I have thought about far too often since a broken carafe and an espresso machine.
“You are staring,” she says.
“Yes.”
The flush in her cheeks deepens. “You’re supposed to deny it.”
“I don’t see the value.”
“In manners?”
“In lying.”
Her lips part slightly, then close again, and I have the unreasonable satisfaction of watching Julia O’Brien lose her next sentence.
Only for a second.
Then she recovers, because she always does.
“You know,” she says, reaching for her Coke with more care than necessary, “most people at least pretend to be subtle.”
“I can be subtle.”
“When?”
“When the situation calls for it.”
“And this situation does not?”
“No.”
Her hand stills on the glass. “Why not?”
Because we are alone in a private dining room with sunlight touching her hair and her temper still warm in the air. Because she is finally looking at me without the full weight of the office between us. Because there are only so many times a man can pretend not to notice the woman in front of him.
Because I am old enough to know better, but apparently not old enough to care.
I do not say any of that.
Instead, I say, “Because you notice anyway.”
Her fingers tighten once around the glass.
“You make that sound like a bad thing.”
“It was admiration.”
Her eyes hold mine.
The room quiets around us, though nothing has changed. There is still the distant murmur of the dining room beyond the wall, the soft clink of plates somewhere down the hall, the faint hiss of carbonation in her glass.
But Julia is not laughing now.
She is watching me the way she watched the documents on Valecourt’s table. Attentive. Careful. Aware that one wrong word might change the terms.
I should give her a way out of this.
I should lean back, pick up the menu we no longer need, say something harmless about lunch or Valecourt or the absurdity of country clubs with salads named after dead men.
Instead, I remain exactly where I am.
“You do this on purpose,” she says.
“What?”
“Say things that sound ordinary until they’re not.”
“I could say the same about you. You ordered fries.”
She furrows her brows. “I don’t understand.”
“No,” I murmur. “I suppose not.”
Her smile is quizzical.
Before I can decide what to say next, the door opens.
The server enters with the burrata.
Julia looks away first, and I take the small mercy for what it is.
The plate is set between us with grilled bread, tomatoes, olive oil, basil, and a small dish of sea salt. The server places clean plates in front of us, asks if we need anything else, and disappears again when I tell him no.
For a moment, we both look at the food as if it has rescued us from a burning building.
Julia picks up a piece of grilled bread and scoops a generous amount of burrata onto it.
“Oh,” she says after the first bite, looking genuinely pleased.
I pick up my knife. “Good?”
She closes her eyes for half a second. “I’m furious that a place I hate this much has food this good.”
“The cheese has done nothing wrong.”
“It’s guilty by association.”
She takes another bite, and the tension in the room dissolves a little more over good food.
My mother always did say food was magic.
I serve myself a portion, then push the plate slightly closer to her.
She notices.
“You’re doing it again.”
“Sharing?”
“Making it impossible to dislike you.”
“I did not realize you were trying.”
“I like to keep my options open.”
“Wise.”
Her laughing eyes lift to mine over the rim of her glass.
The door opens again.
This time, both of us turn toward it like guilty people.
The server enters with the soup and her sandwich, my branzino behind him on a second tray. He places everything carefully, oblivious or pretending to be, and Julia busies herself with her napkin as if it requires such intense concentration.
I have to look down at my plate.
I am a grown man.
I have negotiated with criminals, financiers, politicians, and men who smiled while planning to betray me.
And this woman, with her Coke and her fries and her fury, is making me behave like I am half my age and out of practice.
The server leaves again, leaving us alone.