Page 89 of Total Exposure

I want to play that show.

I think I’m going to do it.

There’s a reason I didn’t call a cab at the house and instead cut through the city by way of the gardens. There’s a bank of pay phones near the entrance. I had a few coins in my purse, but I’m glad I have a credit card when I get to them, because they don’t take coins.

This world, I swear. It moves way too fast for me.

I get my card out, swipe it like I do in the cab, and then press the numbers I looked up on the internet before I left this morning.

“Dr. Chatwell speaking,” she says.

“Lucinda,” I say.

A pause. “Evangeline? Did you—“

“No,” I say quickly. “No, I’m not quitting. I just wanted to call and tell you… thank you. I think things are going very well. I’m even meeting someone for lunch today.”

“What’s going on?” she asks. “You’re not supposed to—“

“Lucinda,” I say, sighing at her reaction. “I make the rules, OK?”

She lets out one of those scoffing laughs. The incredulous kind.

“And if I want to call and tell you thank you, then I will.”

She’s smiling. I can tell. “Who are you having lunch with?”

“I can’t say. You wouldn’t approve.”

“What?” she asks, slight panic in that word.

“That’s all I’m going to say. That’s all I want to say. Talk soon. Bye.”

I hang up the phone, listen to the beeping the computer inside makes as it completes my transaction, then hike my purse up onto my shoulder, adjust my sunglasses, and walk out the other side of the gardens and back into the city.

I catch a cab a few blocks down, get dropped off in front of the courthouse, and contemplate going inside to see if I can find Jordan before he finds me.

I decide against that. It’s not the fast beating of my heart, either. It’s not the feeling of too many people, even though that feeling is there. It’s because I’d like to be early today. I don’t want to share a table with some stranger who wants to talk to me. I want to watch Jordan when he comes in and not be distracted.

He’s handsome and I want to study his face. I want to imagine what it would be like to talk to him. Date him. Fuck him.

So I get to the coffee house at eleven forty. The lunch crowd is just starting to pick up but there are several open tables. I ask for one in the back, in the corner where I can hide in the shadows. I take my scarf off as my heart begins to gallop inside my chest, but I did that yesterday, so it feels a little familiar. I leave the gloves and sunglasses on.

I order the club with avocado without looking at the menu and feel like a local. Which makes me smile. Not because I’m tricking anyone. But because it’s true, after all. Practice makes perfect. And it’s just as easy to lie to other people as it is myself. Which is kind of a relief.

I spend the next twenty minutes watching the door, so eager to see the man I came for. And when the minutes tick off, and he’s late, I have a sick feeling in my stomach that this whole idea is stupid, and I’m stupid, and I will sit here all afternoon, by myself, and never get the reward I’m after.

To watch, instead of being the one watched.

But then he’s there. At twelve o nine. Pushing through the crowd, leaning into the ear of the hostess, who points him to the counter, where he walks up with the confidence of a man who has nothing to fear and orders a sandwich.

He’s not staying, I realize. If I want to talk to him, I will have to make a move. I put both gloved hands on either side of the plate holding the club sandwich I won’t be eating, and begin to rise.

“Angela!”

My head swivels at the name and I sit back into my chair, surprised that Mike, the interloper from yesterday, is making his way to my table.

“Ha!” he says, pointing to the empty chair on the other side of the table. “You saved me a seat. See, one good deed yesterday gets me a seat today.” He says that as he unwraps his scarf, takes off his gloves, shoving them into his coat pocket, and sits down.