Chapter 50 Vivian
Vivian
February
Vivian stares across Canton’s Restaurant at the girl with blue hair.
She’s maybe in her early twenties and wears a black shirt and black pants, as if going to a funeral.
On the side of her nose is a piercing, or a hole for one.
Flitting over to the bar, she says something to the bartender, who gives a hesitant smile.
The way she leans toward him implies familiarity, almost like they’re coworkers.
She’s certainly not a guest, based on her appearance, or that tacky pink sticker-decorated suitcase from earlier, but it also doesn’t seem like she’s the hired help.
Peter, too, seems to notice her. Eduardo has to ask twice if they need anything else.
“No, thank you, Eduardo. We are all set right now,” Peter finally replies.
“Enjoy your meal,” Eduardo says, with a little bow. As he retreats past the bar, he does a double take and then quickens his pace to head into the kitchen.
Who is she?
Vivian picks up her fork and somehow manages to shovel pieces of her salmon Caesar salad into her mouth.
She nods politely to something Peter says, but she’s not following the conversation.
The lettuce tastes like pieces of paper in Vivian’s mouth, making it difficult to swallow.
Even her favorite wine is now marked with a bitter aftertaste, as if left out overnight without a cork.
Everything feels off, despite how Peter is now completely focused on Vivian.
Even so, Vivian knows he was thrown off by the girl’s appearance.
“So, are you going to tell me what’s going on?” Peter asks, at one point, sitting back in his chair. He’s smiling, but he’s also not.
“Nothing’s going on,” Vivian says, a little too quickly.
She picks up her wineglass but then thinks better of it.
She needs her wits about her and instead takes a long sip of water.
Her gaze invariably drifts over to the bar.
On the woman’s feet are a pair of black Converse.
She has to work here. Something about her profile strikes Vivian as familiar.
Rose suddenly enters from the kitchen, her face uncharacteristically flushed.
Eduardo follows closely behind, whispering in her ear.
He’s gesturing both at the bar, where the woman is, and toward the back of the restaurant.
Vivian gives a quick glance behind her at the other diners, but all seems to be in order: people engrossed in conversation and food.
“You seem distracted,” Peter says.
She shrugs. “Like I said, I have a headache.”
“Bullshit.” Peter’s lower jaw juts out slightly; he’s not saying this in a teasing manner.
She looks down at her wineglass. There’s a red drop of wine on the base, and she uses her finger to rub the liquid back and forth, her own thoughts swirling. “Well, maybe we’re both bullshitting each other,” she finally replies, meeting his gaze.
He raises his eyebrows. “I hope not. I don’t want that.”
“Neither do I.”
“There are things about me, and…” He drops his voice lower. “The Knox. Things I want to tell you, in private.”
“Like what?”
He seemed to have no problem divulging Knox secrets earlier on.
“For starters, I didn’t tell you the truth about my trip.”
“Oh, you didn’t?” She hopes she sounds convincing. She steals another glance at the bar, but the blue-haired woman is no longer there—not in the restaurant at all, in fact. Nor is Rose or Eduardo.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t want to lie to you. But there was a situation here I needed to take care of—” He abruptly stops as Michael strides by on his way to the bar. Peter gives him a nod, a pseudo smile plastered on his face.
Vivian frowns. Isn’t Michael a close friend? If so, then why is Peter being so careful around him?
Michael returns the nod, then gives Vivian a curious glance and continues on his way. “We can talk more about this later, when we’re alone,” Peter murmurs, his eyes roaming the room.
Is he looking for the girl?
“Fine,” she says, rather curtly.
“What about you?”
“What about me?”
“Do you have anything you want to share with me?” he asks, staring hard.
She feels a flush wrap around her throat like a turtleneck. Her friendship with Xavier. Her family’s Knox lineage. The missing schedule of beneficiaries. Xavier’s warnings. Her deep financial shithole. “No.”
“No?” He tilts his head.
“No.”
“Do you not trust me, Vivian? I don’t know about you, but I’m serious about this. About us. I’m too old to play games.”
It should be music to her ears, but it’s not. Clearly, he knows something about her, one of her secrets. Which one is it?
She wishes they weren’t in Canton’s Restaurant, with so many people around them. Maybe, if it were just the two of them, naked beneath the sheets, they could be more vulnerable with each other. More honest.
Right now, it feels like they’re in a chess match.
“So what’s it gonna take?” he asks, drumming his fingers against the table.
It’s a fair question. What is it going to take? She searches his eyes, two deceptively calm blue oceans. Is this the point in their relationship where they both come completely clean? She’s never really gotten to this point in a relationship before. She’s never cared enough; she’s never wanted to.
But what if she doesn’t want to know his secrets? What if they’re too much to bear? How could that scene she witnessed between him and the blue-haired girl be anything other than what it appeared: him checking out of a hotel with her?
“I need to use the bathroom,” Vivian says, rising.
Peter also rises, ever the gentleman, at least by outward appearances. “It’s down the hall, on the left side.”