I leaned forward, matching his posture. “Every great romance should start from an even greater friendship. It’s what gives the relationship strength to withstand any obstacle.”
That hint of a smile, which had been on his face since the conversation started, grew, as if my words had watered it. He reached across the table and laid his hand on mine. “Good thing we’re here together as friends then.”
For the second time, I slipped my hand free and leaned back. “That’s a rather Willoughby thing to say, and I’m not a Marianne.”
The server returned then and placed a steaming plate of fish in front of Landon and a vibrant salad in front of me. I picked up my fork and stabbed at the green leaves of baby spinach.
“I’m sorry if I offended you.”
Had he? The force I was putting behind the tines of my fork said that his words had rankled, but why?
“I like you, Emory, and I’m the kind of guy who says whatever is on his mind. I’ll try to filter it though, if it bothers you.”
I looked up and deflated at the sincerity in his eyes. Why should he filter his thoughts? I did that enough for everyone. “No, no.” I shook my head. “Sorry. I don’t know what my problem is.”
Tate bounced up the two steps to the stage, his movement drawing both mine and Landon’s attention. Landon let the conversation drop, and for that I was thankful. He really was a good guy, and talking to him hadn’t been torture. And yet? Nothing. He was attractive, but I wasn’t attracted to him. There was nothing in him that was calling out to anything in me. Tate had picked well. He’d chosen a guy I could talk to and be friends with. Hopefully, he wouldn’t be disappointed when nothing more developed though.
Tate hooked up wires from the amplifier to his guitar, then moved to stand in front of the microphone, smile in place as he glanced out over the crowd. His gaze lighted on me, and his lips softened from a stage smile to a genuine one. I watched as his eyes widened and the expression on his face froze. Hardened. With what looked like effort, he licked his lips and leaned his mouth toward the mic. “Good evening. I hope you enjoy tonight’s music.”
What was that? Why had his expression changed so drastically when he saw me?
“You were right.” Landon swallowed, his voice snagging my attention away from Tate on the stage. “This is the best salmon I’ve had in a long time.”
I made some sort of noise of acknowledgment in the back of my throat, but I’d honestly only half heard him. I stared at Tate on stage. The fingers of his right hand pressed the strings along the neck of his guitar, moving up, down, forward, back as he changed chords, his left hand in constant motion as he strummed the strings lower down. His brows pulled low over his eyes, and though the rest of his body moved to the music, those eyes were locked in place. On me. Drilling into mine.
The song ended and another started, but Tate didn’t look away. He ignored the groupie table of women. The one right in front, full of the same women who came out to hear him sing almost as much as I did. Ignored all of the crowd. Which wasn’t his style. Usually he was aware of his audience. He’d notice the elderly couple who held hands across the table and later remark how he figured they were there to celebrate their fiftieth wedding anniversary. He’d pick a song he knew was popular in their prime and sing it special for them. He’d notice the nervous teen with a date in the corner and sing something he thought would put the guy at ease. But he wasn’t doing any of that. His eyes bored into mine.
The tight set of his jaw and the way his shoulders bunched under his V-neck shirt caused my stomach to tighten with dread. Something wasn’t right. Usually music flowed through his body, making him look relaxed and fluid. Now he looked more like a wooden mannequin, only moving because an unseen hand was manipulating him to do so.
I could feel Landon’s scrutiny. Could feel it but couldn’t see it, because I couldn’t tear my eyes away from Tate. Was it his sister? She’d been in chemo for the last month. Had something bad happened? Had she taken a turn for the worst?
Landon cleared his throat, and I managed to extricate my gaze from the tractor beam it had been trapped in. I’d talk to Tate later. Make sure everything was all right.
“You and Tate been friends a long time?” Landon asked with a knowing look. Which was appropriate because he did know the answer to the question.
“Yeah.”
“Just friends?”
I dropped my fork, and it clattered against my plate. “Of course.”
“Emory.” He pronounced all three syllables to my name, drawing it out like to a slow child. “You aren’t a Marianne, but you’re quicker to catch on than Emma, too.” He looked over at Tate, then back to me. “Tate won’t come over to the table as long as I’m here, and you two need to talk.”
Why wouldn’t Tate come to the table? We were all friends.
Landon stood, took a step toward me, then leaned over and pressed a kiss to the top of my head. “I’ll take care of the check at the front. Thank you for having dinner with me. I’d say maybe we could do it again sometime, but under the circumstances, I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
What? I turned, my lips circling to form the word, but Landon was already walking away. Swinging back around, I sat there, confused. The amplifier thumped as Tate unplugged his guitar. I scooted my bottom backward until it hit the backrest of the chair. Pushed my shoulders back. Watched as Tate put his guitar in the case and closed the lid. Swung the instrument onto his back. And then stormed past me, thunder in his face.
I wilted, wondering what had happened. Too scared to acknowledge that maybe I knew more than I was letting myself admit.
Nine
The bus was late which got me home late which made me irritable. The whole ride back to downtown all I could think about was Tate, the expression on his face when he played tonight, the stricken look in his eyes as he breezed past me toward the exit. Not a word. Not a glance.
He’d been upset, but that umbrella covered a variety of emotions. Anger, frustration, hurt, sadness. No matter how much I waded through the evening, his body language, his choice of songs, I couldn’t decipher the root of his upset. Was it me? Was it his sister? Sydney? Something else entirely?
Whatever it was, I had to make sure he was okay. Which was why my glare shot daggers into the back of the bus driver’s head. Didn’t do much good. He still maintained the speed limit, and I still got home after dark.
