Page 11 of Emil

“No, I’m not. Leave. Now.” My voice was stern. Anders flinched but made no move to join them. Perfect.

My questions were endless.

“Let’s start this over.” Anders glanced around the table before giving a slight nod of agreement. “Since you’ve obviously been here before, besides the chicken marsala, is there anything else you recommend?”

I was dying to know how the staff knew Anders but not John.

“I’m not a big steak eater, but the ribeye is delicious. And the salmon, of course.” Anders’s voice was hesitant, like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to speak above a whisper, but the smoothness of it was like a river running over rocks.

“Ribeye it is.”

The server set a loaf of sourdough on the table. On reflex, Anders reached across, cut a slice, buttered it, and set it on my plate. Then he put his hands back in his lap rather than cut his own. There was an air of patience about him I didn’t understand, but I instinctively knew he was waiting for me to do something, though I wasn’t sure what.

I took a bite of the bread, and only then did he relax enough to cut a slice for himself. His hands trembled a little, effort behind every movement, trying to appear calm instead of the bundle of nerves he clearly was.

“Gentlemen, I’m sorry for the delay. Can I get you another drink?” the server asked.

“Go ahead,” I urged Anders.

He glanced at the empty seat where John had been sitting, as if a ghost were about to tell him what he was allowed to do. His mouth opened and closed twice. It was painful to watch a man I already knew was kind and generous look so unsure of himself.

If that had been John in public, I didn’t want to imagine him in private. If he’d displayed this level of contempt out in the open, what the fuck was he saying behind closed doors?

“May I have a mocktail, please?” Anders asked. He flicked a look at me as if he expected to be stopped.

“No problem. The bartender made a fantastic one earlier with blood orange. Want to try that?”

Again, Anders glanced at the empty seat, waiting for a confirmation that would never come.

“Yes, thank you.” His voice wobbled, and he braced as if preparing for a blow. He glanced at me and let out a breath, almost silent. The tension coming off him gutted me.

“Can we go ahead and put in our order now as well?” I asked, trying to direct Anders away from whatever internal minefield he was navigating.

“Of course. What can I get you?” the server asked, looking at Anders first. Anders went rigid at the renewed attention. Some instinct in me kicked in—intervening felt necessary.

“I’ll have the ribeye, medium rare, and my friend will have the chicken marsala. If the kitchen can do extra sauce for him, that would be great. Thank you.”

Anders eased again the moment the pressure was off him.

When the bread on my plate was gone, Anders cut another slice on autopilot, buttered it, and placed it in front of me. Satisfaction softened his face when I took a bite. Only then did he eat his own.

I had no idea what I was looking at, but the breadcrumbs Anders kept dropping were clues to a bigger puzzle. The waiting, the watching, the bracing—something was happening here I didn’t yet understand.

While we waited for dinner, I asked him questions about the company and internal organization. For someone pigeonholed into one role, Anders had a sharp grasp of every position. He knew who was leaving and why, where they were going, what their jobs actually entailed, and what each person excelled at. He didn’t volunteer information, but he answered whatever I asked.

As interesting as the company intel was, it wasn’t the question I really wanted to ask.

“Anders, I have a question, but you’re fully free to tell me to mind my own business. Deal?”

“Okay…maybe?”

The hesitation shouldn’t have been cute, but it was. If that made me a bad person, I’d live with it.

“How do the servers know you but not John?”

His first genuine smile hit me like a sucker punch. It was pure joy.

“My friend Rory? From the office lunch?”