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NINETEEN

IT’S NOT THAT SIMPLE, okay?

The words won’t leave my brain, no matter how forcefully I try to evict them. Unable to stay seated behind my desk, pacing my office, trying to focus on some motions and an interlocutory appeal I have to draft, but always returning to those words David spoke over the phone when he didn’t think I could hear him.

It’s not that simple, okay?

By noon, I’m losing my concentration. I want to see him. Sometimes I’ll drive to the pub for lunch, but usually I wait until after the rush, after one o’clock. Today, I’m not in the mood to wait.

I reach the pub at a quarter past noon. The lot is half full. A good crowd, but nothing crazy. Inside, the bar area — with its exposed brick, shiny oak tabletops, booths with leather seats, and brushed-nickel overhanging lamps — is busy but not slammed. The bartender is Gwinne, an Italian beauty. She has looks that would qualify for a magazine cover, a cup size that would make any woman envious — I’m guessing they’re fake — and silky dark hair that bobs around in a ponytail. There isn’t a man in the bar who isn’t ogling her.

She gives me a little wave while she draws on the tap, pouring a beer. She’s never been particularly friendly and seems even less so now. The male customers sure love her, though.

“Is David here?” I ask.

“No, he’s not. I’m not sure where,” she says.

The dining area in the back is humming with activity. Most of the staff recognizes me with quick waves or nods, but they don’t have time to chat, buzzing between tables for orders or going back and forth from the dining area to the kitchen.

“Marcie, hi!” One of the assistant managers, Dennis, touches my shoulder as he passes.

“Hi, Dennis — is he in the back?”

“Oh, David had to step out. Said he’d be a few hours.”

“Oh — okay.” Shoot. He’s not here. That’s what I get for an unannounced pop-in.

I pull out my phone and type a text:

Stopped by to say hi but missed you. Returning soon?

I poise my finger over the green Send button. But I don’t send it.

Instead I pause. Take a breath.

It’s not that simple, okay?

I hit the Backspace button and erase the entire text. I type this one instead:

Thinking of stopping by for quick lunch. Are you free?

This time, I hit Send.

I stand outside his office door, listening to the familiar symphony of the kitchen, burgers sizzling, pots scraping, hot oil hissing, people calling out to each other in English and Spanish, until my phone buzzes. A response from David:

We are crushed right now all hands on deck maybe later?

I read that text over and over, searching for any conceivable interpretation that isn’t a flat-out lie.

What … what possible reason could he have to lie to me about where he is?

I won’t … I can’t let my mind go there.

With a burning in my chest, I put the phone in my purse and head for the exit. Out the window, it has started to snow, the wet, slushy kind. A waiter, a thirtysomething guy named Jesse who’s been with David for years, calls out to me.

“Careful out there, Mrs. B.,” he says. “Something bad’s coming our way.”

I look at him and nod, force a smile.

“Or it’s already here,” I mumble.