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“Do you sleep with the lights on?” he asked out of nowhere. “It’s just, I’m usually up most of the night and sleep during the day.”
“Like a vampire.”
“Like a musician,” he corrected. “I happened to notice the lights over at your place are often on till early in the morning.”
I fiddled with the placement of my glass of water and the assorted condiments. As you do. “Leaving aside the part where you’ve been watching me again, the truth is . . . I don’t always sleep so great.”
“Why is that?”
I shrugged.
He frowned.
“Busy brain. I don’t know. It’s not a big deal,” I said, rushing right along. “Let’s talk about you. You’ve traveled the world and experienced all sorts of things. Much more interesting than me and my wonky sleep habits and various neuroses.”
“I don’t know about that.”
With all due caution, he turned his head to the side and checked out the place. He sat slouched back in the booth, at ease. There didn’t appear to be an iota of tension in him. Not how I’d been expecting the man to react to a public place. Perhaps he was just that happy not to be in L.A.
As for the rest of the room, Harry and Linda were seated at the bar drinking and chatting with Emma, with a couple of locals playing pool and a few more eating. Otherwise, all was quiet, give or take the music coming from the jukebox. Garrett’s fingers tapped out an intricate beat against the scarred wooden tabletop.
“Do you miss making music?” I asked. “I know you talked about it a bit last night. But—”
“No.” He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Then he narrowed his eyes on me all contemplative like. “You know what? Second rule of not-dating: no personal questions.”
“We’re going to wind up talking about the weather at this rate.”
“Probably,” he conceded.
“How is Gene doing? Can I ask that?”
“He’s settling in fine. He, ah . . . it’s good having him around again. For both of us.” Once more, he looked over his shoulder around the bar. It seemed any concession made regarding the giving of information was accompanied by the temporary removal of eye contact. Like things had gotten too personal and he needed a minute to recoup. The man was amazingly adept at hiding in plain sight. “This place isn’t bad.”
“It has a certain rustic charm.”
“That was kind of them to go along with keeping quiet about me.”
“Yeah. It was. They’re good people,” I said. “I know Wildwood is small, but it has a lot to offer.”
“What do you do with your free time?” he asked. “Go hiking?”
“Hell no.” I snorted. “I don’t do nature up close. A nice big window or patio with a drink in hand is sufficient for me. Just sit back, relax, and enjoy the view, you know?”
“Remind me why you live here again.”
“Well, I grew up here,” I said. “It’s what I know. And the area is beautiful and the people are quite often great. But you specified no personal questions. That means I get to ask you one.”
His gaze turned unhappy. “We’re trading answers now?”
“It’s only fair.”
His mouth firmed and for a long moment, he just stared at me. Like he was preparing himself to take a hit or something. For life to hurt him once again. It was sad to see.
“You already answered my question about Gene, so . . .” I said quietly.
Neither of us spoke for a minute.
“The sky was a pretty shade of blue today,” I commented, apropos of nothing.
“This is you talking about the weather?”
I just shrugged.
“Go on,” he growled. “Ask your question.”
“Thank you.” I smiled. “Why don’t you have any tattoos?”
He paused, surprised. “Not a big fan of needles.”
“Ah.”
“That’s it? That’s your question?”
“Yep.”
He pondered this for a moment. And I think he was pleased, but it was hard to tell. “So what can we do on our next not-date?”
“You want to go out with me again?”
“As friends. Sure. This hasn’t been so bad.”
“I agree.” I nodded. “And as friends only. In which case, it would probably be more accurate to describe these events as simply outings instead of not-dates, right?”
“The word date upsets you that much?”
I gave him my best fake smile. “Of course not. It’s just . . .”
“What?”
“Nothing. Call it what you want. Your choice of word does not affect me at all.”
“Okay. Let me get back to you with a time and place. I do have one more vaguely personal question, though,” he said, face a perfect blank. “Did you have a photo of Smith on your cell?”
I gave him a slow smile. “I’ll never tell.”
“Let me see if I got this right,” said Cézanne, sitting in the driver’s seat of the secondhand vehicle we’d taken for a test drive. After hitting up the farmers’ market in Falls Creek, of course. “A famous rock star moved in next door to you and you didn’t tell anybody.”
