Page 12 of Every Silent Lie

I lower my glass, still having not taken a sip. “How do you know he was looking for me?”

“Because he asked if you’d been in since Friday.”

“Oh.” I inhale, picking up my martini and having a long swig before Julio here says something else that catches me off guard. Then I tap the bar, blinking when he drops a cube of ice into a glass and it chinks loudly. He was here? Looking for me? I frown down at the bar, my heart now racing with my mind.

Odd.

Don’t you trust yourself?

Not in the least.

I take another sip of my drink, but for some reason tonight, the strong hit of alcohol doesn’t have the usual or desired effect. I swallow and place my glass down, easing back on the stool.

The barman clears his throat, so I glance up at him. He nods past me.

And something deep inside stirs. My shoulders roll of their own volition, and I slowly swivel on the stool. My inhale is sharp and unstoppable when I find him on the threshold of the bar, his stance wide as he slowly pulls the navy scarf from around his neck. Our eyes meet, my stomach flips, and I swallow down my awe. He doesn’t smile, doesn’t speak. He just wanders over to me and drops his case between the stools, removes his coat, collects mine off the stool next to me, and hangs them on the nearby coat stand. Then he helps himself to the stool beside me, pulling my spare martini close by the tips of his fingers on the base.

I let my stool turn until I’m facing him, my knees nearly touching his thighs. “Hello again,” I say quietly as he helps himself to a sip of my deterrent drink.

“Hello.” He turns his eyes my way, and my world seems to shift as I stare into them. “Tell me why you come here,” he orders softly.

“No.”

He pouts, squinting thoughtfully as he sips some more. “Tell me how old you are.”

“Thirty-seven.”

“Tell me the reason your husband wants a divorce.”

“No.”

“Tell me your favourite Christmas movie.”

“I don’t have one.”

“Tell me how long you were married.”

“Nine years.”

“Together?”

“Twelve.”

“Your birthday.”

“Tenth of March.”

“Your favourite colour?”

I remain quiet. I don’t see colour anymore.

“Food?”

“I eat to survive.”

“You must have a favourite food.”

I take a sip of my drink on a shrug, making him inhale deeply and exhale loudly. I don’t have a favourite anything.