solve and understand, and she deciphered this: “I’ll do whatever I need to protect the ones I love, and because I love you, I’ll protect you the same way.”
As I open my mouth to backtrack the meaning behind my words, she says, “Tell me the story.”
“Of?”
“Tell me the worst thing you can tell me.”
I put my hands in my pockets, turn my head, and recede as if being blown by a strong wind. “Why?”
She doesn’t quickly answer, wavers like she might change her mind about going down whatever path this is. Finally, “Because I have to sort out whatever these feelings are that I have. I’m only seeing one side of you.” She bridges the gap I created seconds earlier. “I need to know what you’re capable of.”
I don’t answer her, but I fully understand what she needs. Though she made it clear what she wants me to tell her, here are the words she left unspoken: “I am trusting you to free me, that somehow you will pull this off—but when this is over, I need to be able to discard you. Help me understand how.”
Herein lies the direct result of caving to temptation, the wreckage caused by weakness and a lack of restraint and discipline. My heart shouldn’t be breaking, should’ve never been vulnerable in the first place. I’m thankful she spotted the problem, protected us from my worsening myopia. At some point I started convincing her that freedom included being free of me—and stopped convincing myself.
I’m willing to give her what she needs—what I need—to keep this on course, to make this mission a success.
“There was, uh… one guy in particular,” I say. “Turned out very badly.”
She closes her eyes and hugs me, whispers, “Thank you.”
I return the hug, bury my face in the crevice of her neck, and fill my lungs like it’s my last embrace before heading off to war.
ELEVEN
Though we are hungry, selecting a particular style of cuisine does not remain on our minds. We pick the nearest place to where we’re standing, a seafood restaurant that’s been located on the harbor for as long as I can remember, still standing from our days of coming downtown as kids. We walk in and the restaurant is large but well partitioned into cozy sections, its semicircular shape affording nice views of the harbor and city skyline for the majority of tables. The hostess welcomes us; I reach in my pocket and start peeling off bills. Melody slaps my hand and rolls her eyes.
“What,” I say, “it’s impolite to tip a hostess?”
The girl grabs two menus and walks all the way to the back of the restaurant, pretty much as far as you could possibly get from the windows, shows us a table right next to the door of the kitchen, adjacent to a booth with two screaming kids chaperoned by indifferent parents.
Melody seats herself. I stare at her like she’s lost her mind. I pull out my wad again.
“Sit,” she says.
“See, this is what happens.”
“Sit.”
The hostess asks Melody, “Is there a problem, ma’am?”
Melody shakes her head and the hostess disappears. She looks up at me and says, “It’s just a table.”
“You deserve better. You deserve the best—”
“Sit.”
I regret not taking the longer walk to Little Italy, where I could be around my brethren, my culture. Pick any restaurant there and you have a fifty-fifty shot that the hostess is an elderly woman—likely the wife of the guy whose name is plastered on the sign—whose life experience brings an understanding of the needs of a young couple who appear to be dating, regardless of the truth of our circumstances. And there we would get priority everything. If Italians understand any of the essentials of life, they understand food and love.
“Just a table,” I grumble as I take my seat. A hunk of carrot goes flying into the walkway from the booth behind us.
We’re greeted by a server named Herman. Were this guy applying for a position at Sylvia, I’d give him the job just so I could fire him on the spot. His unkempt, ratlike look is one thing, but the bigger issue is his attention is elsewhere, like down the front of Melody’s dress—my companion is modestly endowed and not wearing a bra, which means Herman has to struggle for a glimpse; his extensive effort ticks me off. He hands me a menu without making eye contact, nearly jabs me in the chin with it, asks if he can get us something to drink, but