Page 39 of That's Not a Thing

Aaron glances over at me and then looks back to his crêpe. “Okay.”

“I thought I’d go down to the restaurant this afternoon, just see how he’s doing.”

“Okay,” he says again.

I turn my body on the sofa to face him and take his chin in my hand, turning his head toward me. He raises his eyebrows at me and keeps chewing. For all I can tell, he looks genuinely calm.

“I’m going to take what you say at face value,” I tell him, “so if you’ve got a problem with this, say so. Otherwise, I won’t know it bothers you.”

“It does bother me,” he says, and I wonder what to say, “but I think it’s the right thing to do, and you need to do it.”

We stare at each other in silence for a moment, each evaluating the other’s position.

“Okay,” I finally say.

“Okay,” he says, and turns back to his food.

“But,” I say, and I wait for him to look back over at me before I continue speaking, “you are my priority, and I don’t want to do anything you’re aren’t okay with, so you have to speak up. If you see something, say something.”

“Okay.”

“You’re my priority,” I repeat, willing it to be true.

THREE HOURS LATER,I am standing on Greenwich Avenue, wondering if I should be here, staring at the painted door of Thunder Chicken. I think back to that moment outside my building several weeks ago, when I felt like Wes was going to kiss me, when I almost let that happen, and I know that I am playing with fire. But then I remember the way Wesley and I used to be, the magic that seemed to swirl around us like a vortex every time we looked at each other, and I push open the door of the restaurant with an involuntary burst of excitement.

A willowy hostess awaits at a podium just past the vestibule. “Good afternoon,” she greets me with some sort of Eastern European accent that I can’t place and not even a hint of a smile. “You have a reservation?”

I didn’t expect the restaurant to be so full at lunchtime, but every last table appears to be occupied, and another group of people is walking in the door behind me. I hadn’t meant to come at such a busy time, and I second-guess myself. But then I see the hostess looking behind me at the next group, getting ready to dismiss me, and that gets my goat.

“I’m not here to eat,” I tell her. “I’m looking for Wesley Latner.”

The young woman’s eyes snap back toward me as she looks me over now from head to toe, taking in my casual white T-shirt, black leggings, and white platform sneakers. Clearly, in my informal garb, I am not from the health department. Maybe she thinks I’m some sort of stalker who’s pining after Wesley and tracking him back to his restaurant. Which, actually, is precisely what’s going on.

“Chef is very busy with the brunches. It is about what?”

“Oh. I’m just ...” I look back at the room full of diners, bustling servers, and laughing patrons, a group of fashionable people all clearly in the know about clothing, eateries, and everything else that makes someonesomeonein this high-stakes city. “I’ll come back another time.” I pull my phone out of my purse and glance down at the screen as I turn to leave in a lame attempt at looking busy and important while I go.

As I scoot past the two couples that have been waiting behind me, I hear someone call my name and turn to see Wesley coming toward me. I’m struck, as always, by the draw I feel toward the vivid emerald of his eyes, his thick lips, but then I notice his awkward gait and I look down to see that he’s using not one, but two canes, as he hobbles toward me. His jaw is clenched as he approaches, and I can tell that he is expending great effort to make it appear as if this hurried walking is not enormously difficult. I hustle back past the other patrons who are still waiting for the hostess so that he can stop the charade.

“Hi,” I say as I lean in to give him an awkward kiss on the cheek. He leans forward on his canes, and our cheeks connect for a split second before I step back.

“Sorry,” I say in a rush, “I was coming to check in on you, but I didn’t realize you guys would be so busy. I don’t know why I assumed you did primarily a dinner business.”

“No worries,” he says as the hostess passes by, four slate menus in her hand, leading two couples around us. She dips her high cheekbones down in a nod toward Wesley, who nods back absently.

“They don’t really need me,” he says, his eyes back on me. “I’ve handed over the reins and have only been coming in to oversee my replacements. For better or for worse, it seems I’ve found two very capable guys, and I’ve effectively made myself obsolete.”

“Oh, well, then do you want to sit and catch up for a minute?” It’s more forward than I usually am, more forward than I expected to be today, but I don’t want Wesley to remain standing on my account. I glance around quickly, wondering where we can even sit down, as even the seats at the bar are full.

“Sure,” he says, sounding relieved, perhaps even pleased. “There’s an office in the back.”

He turns toward the interior of the restaurant, and I start following him just as the hostess passes us again, returning to her post. I raise my eyebrows at her as I set off behind him, as if to say,Suck it, bitch. It reminds me of all the times over the years when other women would hit on Wesley. He was either completely oblivious or totally uninterested in them, but it always left me with a little ego boost, and I can feel myself getting high off those same self-congratulatory fumes right now.

Except as I turn back and follow Wesley, I see the way he’s walking and the joy seeps straight out of me. He seems to be putting nearly all of his weight on the canes as he limps along. One leg is clearly much weaker than the other, but both are apparently in bad shape. I feel tears springing to my eyes as I watch the awkward upand-down movement. His whole body seems to rise up, shimmy a little, and sink back down between each step. He’s like an ill-equipped sailboat making its way doggedly over dangerously large waves, one after another. I bite down hard in attempt to keep the tears at bay, and I try to distract myself by letting my eyes wander the restaurant. Nobody is paying us much attention. The couples and groups are all engrossed in their meals, their mimosas, one another.

We finally reach a door at the back of the restaurant that readsEMPLOYEES ONLY. I follow him into a dark hallway where there appears to be a couple of offices and a bathroom. He stops at the first office, a dimly lit room with a glass desk at its center. Two deep black chairs face the desk, and a black sofa sits against one wall. Even though I know it’s sunny outside, it has suddenly become nighttime in this dark space. I look for a light switch as Wesley leans his canes against the side of the desk. He lowers himself with a thump into the chair behind the desk and sighs with relief.

“Please, sit.” He motions toward the two empty chairs across from him.