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“I suppose you’re right.” He smiles.
And then he takes another bite of calamari.
Dear Lord, this is going to be a long night.
And I’m going running with him tomorrow.
The great thing about running is you don’t have to talk while you’re doing it. In fact, if you’re talking, you’re not working hard enough. Since he’s training for a marathon, Tom will understand that.
Summer comes by to check on us. “Can I get you anything else?”
I nod to my martini glass, breaking the earlier rule I set for myself. “Another one of these, please.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Frankie
I get a quick brush on my lips from Tom, and I keep my lips sealed. I like him, but I can’t get Phantom out of my mind.
He puts me in a cab, and when I open my mouth to tell the cabbie my address, the address of the bar where I’m going to meet Phantom tomorrow comes out instead.
Fifteen minutes later, the cabbie stops, and I pay him and then head toward the bar, hoping Phantom will be there.
I’m wearing the same shoes I wore last Saturday night—my black platform pumps. But other than that, I’m dressed much more casually. Tonight, I wear black skinny jeans, a white camisole, and a black leather blazer.
I walk tentatively into the bar.
I’ve been to this bar many times. But now? It has a whole new meaning for me.
This is where I met Phantom.
The Phantom of the Opera is one of my favorite musicals, but I’m not sure I could say it’s my favorite. I was taken aback when Phantom himself told me that Camelot was his favorite and that his favorite book is The Great Gatsby.
I read The Phantom of the Opera once, back in college. Even then I was mesmerized by the Phantom, whose real name was—
I drop my jaw.
The Phantom of the Opera’s name isn’t given in the musical, but it is in the book.
It’s Erik. Erik with a K.
Oh my God.
Was I actually talking to Phantom in my chat earlier this week? And then I just missed him at the restaurant, too? Hmm. Phantom said he’s a writer, and Erik said he’s a doctor. But doctors can also be writers… Phantom clearly likes literature.
This is all circumstantial evidence to be sure, but…
I walk to the bar. Alfred is tending, as usual. Does he ever take a night off?
“Hey, great to see you again. Frankie, isn’t it?”
“Yes. Hi, Alfred.”
“Don’t tell me you’re meeting Phantom tonight.”
“I wasn’t planning on it. Why? Has he been in?”
“I haven’t seen him. Can I get you a drink?”
“Yeah, but I’ve already had two martinis tonight, so make it a Diet Coke.”
“Absolutely.” He turns, squirts Diet Coke into a glass from the fountain, and slides it across to me. “Anything else?”
“This is fine for now.”
“Are you hungry? I can order you some food.”
“No, I just had dinner.”
Indeed, my dinner tasted kind of like cardboard. I usually enjoy duck, but this was a little overdone. The skin was soggy more than crispy. Very odd for The Glass House. They usually serve a great meal, not that I go there very often.
“Well, look who came in tonight.” Alfred glances toward the entryway.
I turn and—
My whole body goes numb.
It’s him. Phantom.
We weren’t supposed to meet here, which means…he might be meeting someone else.
If only a giant hole would appear beneath me and swallow me. Whoever Phantom is meeting, I don’t want to see her. I don’t even want to think about the fact that she exists.
He approaches. “Good evening, Angel.”
I swallow. “Hello.”
“Did we have an engagement this evening?”
“No. I just decided to come have a drink.”
“That doesn’t look like a drink to me.”
I hold up my Diet Coke and take a sip. “It’s a liquid, and I drink it.”
“Have you eaten?”
“I have. Have you?”
“I have.”
“Then what are you doing here?” I ask. My voice reeks of annoyance. He’s clearly here to meet someone—someone who isn’t me.
“I like it here,” he says.
“Who are you meeting?” I blurt out.
“No one but you at the moment.”
“You were at The Glass House tonight, weren’t you?”
His eyes widen slightly. Only slightly, but I notice. It’s that much more obvious behind the mask.
“No.”
“Well, I was.”
“Were you? When?”
“At nine o’clock.”
“I was not there this evening.”
“You’re lying.”
“Excuse me?” His voice goes dark.
“My waitress said someone else ordered a dry martini with a splash of St-Germain. Who else would’ve ordered that drink?”
He shakes his head. “Any number of people.”
“Why don’t you start telling me the truth, Erik with a K?”
This time his eyes don’t widen. They look more…confused. “I’m afraid that’s not my name.”
“Oh, isn’t it? Erik with a K? As in The Phantom of the Opera? Or haven’t you read the book?”
“I’ve read the book. I’m very familiar with most world literature.”
“Oh?” Another hint. Perhaps he’s not a doctor after all.
“Yes. And my name is not Erik, with a K or without a K.”
