33. Riley
We climb backinto the car, and Cole peels out of the parking lot, leaving the park—and my mother, wherever she is—behind. He drives into the heart of the city, and neither of us says much as we go. I take the drive to try to compose myself so that my face isn’t red from crying once we arrive at the restaurant.
To my surprise, he pulls up outside of an awning with a valet booth. He gets out of the car and hands the keys to a young man in a crimson suit, who takes it away.
“Cole,” I say to him as we stand on the curb, watching the car. “Are you sure you—”
“Yes.”
He answers before I even finish asking the question, and it makes me smile despite my tumultuous emotions. He lays a gentle hand on my upper arm and gestures to the front doors, which are gilded and have large glass panes. This place seems considerably more upscale than anywhere I would have taken myself to dinner—or even than the restaurant where I used to work.
Once inside, he approaches the host, who is as smartly dressed as the valet. He leans in to speak to him quietly, and the host gives a sharp nod and says, “Absolutely, sir.”
Cole returns to me as the host bustles off.
Less than a minute later, he returns with a smile. “Your table is ready, sir. Right this way.”
Cole and I follow him through the restaurant. There’s beautiful artwork on the walls, and I pause a few times to get a better look at one of the paintings. The golden frames are draped with velvet, a similar deep red to the host’s suit.
The host leads us past the dining room, to a table in an alcove, secluded from the other patrons.
“A private table?” I whisper to Cole as we sit down. He doesn’t respond, just smirks. I can’t shake the feeling that he’s doing too much for a casual dinner.
To me, this feels undeniably like a date. But I don’t dare say that out loud. I don’t want to call any attention to that fact, in case Cole gets cold feet.
After everything that just happened, you deserve something nice, I tell myself. That’s why he’s doing it. Don’t read into it.
“Your waiter will be with you shortly,” the host says, smiling amicably. “Is there anything I can get started for you?”
“Yes,” Cole replies. “We’d love a bottle of cabernet. A Chateau du Glace, if you have it.”
“We do.” The host nods. “I’ll have your waiter bring that right to you.”
The host disappears, leaving the two of us alone. Cole glances over at me.
“Are you okay?” he asks.
“Of course,” I respond, almost instinctively. My hands are wrung together on the table; Cole reaches across to take them, his grip tight and calming. He could be holding my hands—or just soothing my nerves.
“I understand if you’re a little shaken up,” he tells me. “Conflict can be stressful, especially with one’s parents.”
I swallow, remembering what he told me about his father the other night, after I was trapped in the coat closet. “I know, but I think I’ll be okay eventually. It’s not as if this is the first time I’ve had it out with her.”
“But it might be the last,” he says.
“True.” I exhale, relieved as I remember that fact. “Hopefully.”
“Let’s toast to that,” he suggests. As if on cue, the waiter appears to offer us our bottle of wine. He pours a small amount for Cole to taste, then fills both of our glasses.
The wine is a warm, deep red. As it hits my tongue, I taste smoky wood and the sharp tang of tannins. It’s a richer flavor than I’m used to from the cheap, eight dollar bottles of cabernet I would share with my old roommates, or with Olivia. I guess people aren’t making shit up when they talk about wine tasting.
The waiter leaves us alone with our wine and a basket of French bread. We chat amicably, mostly about Archie, until he returns to take our orders.
“The best thing on the menu is the seafood pasta,” Cole tells me. “By far.”
I glance up at the waiter, who nods. “I’d make the same recommendation,” he says, giving me a thumbs-up.
I laugh. “Well, if it’s that unanimous, then I’ll take it!”
“And I’ll have the same,” Cole says. The waiter takes our menus, then disappears back toward the kitchen.
“At this point, I’d take your recommendation on anything culinary. This wine is delicious,” I say, swirling the last of it around the bottom of my glass. “I’ve never had one this nice.”
Cole gives me that warm almost-smile that always makes my heart flutter. “I’m glad you like it. That one’s a personal favorite.”
“I always used to think people were making things up when they suggested good wines. But I guess that’s what you get, when you’ve only ever had the cheapest bottles at the grocery store.”
“Come on,” Cole teases. “Surely some of your artist friends are pretentious enough to get nice wine every now and then.”
I shake my head. “Are you kidding? Artists are broke. They’d never spend double-digits on a bottle of booze.”
I launch into a story about an artist friend from college, a girl from one of my studio classes who used to carry around a flask of cheap tequila to every party. Cole laughs along, and before long, the waiter returns with our food.
As we eat, we continue to talk about stories from school. The pasta is, as promised, amazing. They didn’t serve anything this good at my old restaurant.
“You know, I don’t think I’ve ever asked you—how did you get into painting, anyway?” Cole asks at one point, his expression curious.
“Oh.” Heat rises in my face, and I set the wine glass down, deciding to take it a little slower with the alcohol. I’ve still never been drunk in front of Cole, not even in the slightest.
After the traumatic day I’ve had, I’ll let myself have a little, but I still want to stay sharp. I don’t want to say anything I’ll regret—especially not right now, when we’re on what is basically a date.
“I got into painting while I was in foster care as a teen,” I admit. “I had a bit of a rough time. Most people do, I guess. It’s not a great way to grow up.” I sigh, leaning back in my chair and avoiding Cole’s gaze.
“So it was an outlet for you?”
“More than just an outlet. It saved my life.”
“I didn’t know you felt that deeply about it,” Cole says.
“Art is more than just a hobby,” I tell him. “Ask any artist. There’s something deeply personal about almost everything you make. It’s soothing to work with paints, and it feels good to work with your hands, but beyond that, a painting is like a window into someone’s soul.”
Cole nods, listening intently, his dark blue eyes like a painting themselves—full of layered meaning that I wish I could read as easily as I could interpret artwork in a museum.
“I thought about being an artist when I went to college.” I take another delicate, careful sip of wine. “My school had a studio art program. I took some classes, and ultimately decided I wanted to keep my art personal. I wasn’t cut out for an art career. It’ll wear you down, if you let it.”
“So you landed on social work? Hell of a way to keep from being worn down.”
I shrug; I’ve heard that plenty of times. Social work can be grueling. Sometimes, you’re faced with people at the lowest points of their lives, and things don’t always work out.
But thinking about it, I still smile. “I wanted to help people,” I say. “That was the most important thing for me—that my work would benefit others.”
Cole meets my gaze, and holds it for a long time. The corner of his mouth twitches, and his eyes are warm as he says, “That’s a noble goal.”
I feel flushed, and quickly break his gaze, looking down at the table. I think he might be impressed, which is a laughable thing to think. He’s a successful investor with a net worth of billions of dollars, and I’m just the former waitress who watches his kid.
He’ll realize that eventually, right?
But when I look back up at Cole, he’s still giving me that same half-smile. He shifts, and the fabric of his shirt moves, exposing the tip of the scar on his collarbone. It’s hard to notice; a stranger probably wouldn’t see it if they didn’t know to look.
I’ve seen Cole shirtless dozens of times, though. I’ve seen the angry red scars across his chest. There’s a question in the back of my mind every time Cole strips, but I almost always forget it in the heat of the ensuing sex.
“While we’re opening up,” I say, gently teasing, “you mind if I ask you something?”
“Depends what it is,” he replies.
I push through a sudden rush of trepidation. “I don’t want to pry, or anything, so if you’re not comfortable telling me, I totally understand. I was wondering, though… how did you get the scars on your chest?”
Cole is silent for a long time, and I bite my lip as I wait for him to speak. He’s impossible to read. What if he’s upset with me for asking something so personal? What if I crossed a line?
After what feels like an eternity, he sighs. “You don’t know what happened to Archie’s mother, do you?”
“I knew that she died,” I say hesitantly. “I don’t know how, though.”
He draws in a breath as if weighing something in his head, then finally says, “My sister and I were always close as kids—spent all of our time together. We were always on each other’s side. But when I first opened up my own investment firm, I got very busy, very fast. My work started to take over, and I saw her a lot less.”
There’s a note of guilt in his voice. I want to speak up, to reassure Cole, but at the same time, I know better than to interrupt.
“Archie’s father was never in the picture. He died not long after Archie was born—less than a year. I tried to be a good brother during the early days of Archie’s childhood, but I was overloaded with work. I didn’t keep in touch as much as I should have.”
“It happens,” I say in a small voice. “I’ve had the same problem with Noah, from time to time. People get busy, in certain lines of work more than others.”
Cole gives me a grateful look, then continues, “I didn’t know that she had started to drink more heavily. She did a good job of hiding it every time I saw her, acting like everything was okay. But she was alone, and fighting addiction.”
I remember what Cole said about his father being an alcoholic, and think of the families I’ve encountered during social work internships in college. These kinds of struggles are often generational, passed down from parents to their adult children.
“One night, I went to her place in Jersey for dinner. We were supposed to catch up. It was going to be the first time I’d really spent time with her in ages.”
His hand closes into a fist, and there’s a grim set to his jaw. I’m almost afraid to hear the next part.
“When I got there, the house was on fire,” he says quietly. “She had passed out and left the stove on. I did what anyone would do—I went in. She was trapped—some beams had fallen from the ceiling, and she was trying to get free. As soon as she saw me, she begged me to get Archie out.”
Cole closes his eyes. I reach out instinctively, laying my hand on his wrist.
“I got Archie. He was upstairs in his crib. I took him outside and tried to go back inside, to help her, but a firefighter stopped me—they’d just arrived, and realized that the structure wasn’t going to hold. The roof of the house caved in a few seconds after that.”
“Oh, god.” I squeeze his wrist, heartbroken. “Cole, I… I’m so sorry. That’s terrible.”
“I still have nightmares about that night,” he admits. “I try to save everyone, and I always let someone down.”
He meets my gaze, and I lean toward him, as if I can comfort him through sheer proximity. Right now, I want nothing more than to close the distance between us.
To kiss him in a way I’ve never kissed him before.