Page 73 of The Sin Eater
“Mr. Bolden is right over here,” one of them says. She picks up a thin sheet of parchment, presumably the menu, and waves at me to follow her.
The space manages to find a perfect balance of light and cozy. A long banquet upholstered in tan leather runs through the center of the room, with glossy cherry wood tables spaced along it. Each table has two spare wooden chairs with saffron cushions on their seats and a single creamy white candle. I smell garlic and the hostess’s perfume, light and spicy, and under the low murmur of voices, classical piano comes through invisible speakers.
Curved booths, also upholstered in leather, line the perimeter, with two corner booths both larger and more enclosed than the others. I’m not terribly surprised when the hostess leads me to one of those. It would take a serious baseball fan to recognize him, and a real hardcore to recognize me, but the privacy is nice.
Roger stands when he sees me and says, “Dog,” before wrapping me in a hug.
Our traditional back-slapping teammate hug feels nice. “Hey, man. It’s good to see you.”
“Good to see you, too.”
We both slide into the booth. He’s already got a cocktail; either a gin and tonic or a vodka soda, something clear with bubbles and a lime. A very young, very fine waiter appears before I get a chance to ask Roger what he’s drinking. “I’ll take a beer,” I say, mostly so Roger can give me shit about my lack of imagination. “Do you have an IPA on tap?”
They do, and the waiter goes off to retrieve me one. I survey the expanse of our table and ask if we’re expecting anyone else.
“Nah, dog, it’s just us tonight, unless we meet any pretty ladies.”
That makes me laugh, because Roger’s contact list is packed with pretty ladies. His skin is dark, his smile is wide, and the gold chain around his neck is thick enough to make it clear he’s done well for himself. “I was sorta surprised to hear from you,” I say. “I thought you were on Maui or something.”
“I was. Maui, then Cabo San Lucas, then the Hotel del Coronado in San Diego, then two nights in San Francisco.”
“You worked your way up the West Coast.”
“And left a string of broken hearts behind.”
“I know you did.”
We both laugh. My beer comes and Roger takes advantage of the waiter’s presence to order an appetizer that’s supposed to be the specialty of the house. “Seared scallops with truffle foam. Mmm-mm, it’s gonna be good.” His grin is infectious.
We drink a toast that next year his team goes all the way. It’s one of our semi-regular traditions, and so far it hasn’t come true.
“So.” He pauses to take a sip of his cocktail before continuing. “How’s life at St. Nowhere?”
The only thing I like less than answering that question, is answer it when Roger asks. It’s difficult-to-impossible to makeworking as a hospital security guard sound exciting to someone who’s playing Major League Baseball. My go-to strategy is to keep my answer short and redirect him as quickly as possible. “Paying the rent. How’s life as a free agent?”
“You know. Trying not to get too set on any possibility till I see what all there is out there.”
“Makes sense.”
That prompts him to share a detailed list of the teams he’d consider and who he thinks might be considering him. Kansas City made him an offer, but his agent thinks he can do better, and he’s still going when our waiter comes back with the scallops. There are four of them on the plate, each a good two to three inches across, with an artful dollop of what looks like very light whipped cream in the center.
I must watch the waiter a little too closely while he’s taking our dinner order because when he leaves, Roger laughs in my face. “Wanna see when he gets off work?”
“Shut up, dude.”
Roger’s known me since we were about ten years old. He knew I was bi before we graduated from high school. “Seriously, though, are you seeing somebody?”
Rather than answer, I slide my fork under a scallop and set it on my appetizer plate, along with a bit of the foam. I’m stalling for time and it’s not fooling either of us. Roger’s ready and willing to sit there with his patient smile and his fat gold necklace until I confess to the real disaster in my life.
“Sort of,” I say about a second before it gets awkward. I take a taste of the stuff that looks like whipped cream and a savory bit of heaven blossoms on my tongue. “My god, that’s good.”
Roger gets his own scallop, both of us too busy eating to talk. Of course, when both the scallops and all that gorgeous foam are gone, he crosses his arms and grins at me. “You were going to tell me about the guy you’re seeing.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “You talked to Dorinda, didn’t you?”
His shrug has a touch of apology.
“God damn it.” I down what’s left of my beer. “I’ll tell you the same thing I told her. He’s my mistake to make.”