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“She’ll need a minute,” he tells the woman without breaking my stare.
“What did you do?” I ask, barely able to whisper the words. My fist closes uselessly around the butterknife sitting on top of my napkin.
“Nothing.”
“Tell me what you did,” I demand, loud enough for the woman at the bar to turn up her TV program.
“Keep your voice down,” Salvatore demands.
“She went to the police station. She filed the report. You knew about her, and you knew she was looking for me, and then she goes missing? What did you do?”
“I didn’t touch her,” he says, utterly calm. “I haven’t so much as said her name since you and I discussed her.”
I don’t know if he’s lying or just doing that thing he does, where he talks around the truth and calls it honesty. The image of Salvatore with a switchblade in his hand is like an imprint on my psyche. The silence simmers as the waitress returns. She puts Salvatore’s coffee in front of him and waits for us to order. Neither of us do. Slowly, she takes the hint and leaves us alone.
“You don’t believe me,” he infers coldly.
I search his face.
I want to believe him. I ache to believe him. I want to see him the way I did just last night. I want to see the man who made me feel safe, who carried me completely unharmed through an emotional minefield. I search his face, too easily able to see both sides of him—like a rough gem, beautiful and faceted and sharp enough to cut myself on.
I can’t fuss at Salvatore for being overly paranoid, then throw my own paranoia right back at him. I swallow my pride.
“I believe you,” I agree, though it hurts to say, even if it makes me feel so stupid and gullible. “I shouldn’t have accused you. I’m sorry,” is what I say, though what I mean is, ‘see how fucking painless it is to apologize for once in your stubborn life?’ I don’t know if he gets the message. I have a feeling men pick and choose when they want to be fluent in subtext.
“But I am worried about her. I know Kay. She wouldn’t just drop a job, even if she could afford to, which she can’t.”
“Maybe she found a better opportunity.”
I shake my head.
“And left this place without a word? No. Not her.”
Salvatore turns to his phone.
“Is she the only woman your age who doesn’t have social media?”
“No, of course not. She’s just as terminally online as the rest of us.”
“And she wouldn’t have deleted it?”
“Only at gunpoint.”
Salvatore looks at me, as if I am accusing him of something again. Maybe that wasn’t the most elegant way to put it. Finally, the lightbulb goes off in my head.
“If you’re spelling it right, then you’re spelling it wrong.” I spell Kaydence out for him, every letter making Salvatore’s expression grow more and more incredulous, until he’s no longer typing and just staring at me, offended.
“What?” I ask. “I’m not her mother. I didn’t name her. Kay and I are proud founders of the Terrible Name Club, actually. We bonded over it.”
“Yours isn’t that bad.”
“One of the first things you ever said to me was how stupid my name is,” I remind him.
“Despite how hellbent you are on using it every chance you get.”
“Well, I take it back now.”
He flips the phone around and slides it across the table so I can see Kay’s socials pulled up.
