"Dinner," Jimmy said, a fraction of a second too late.
"Where?"
"The Italian place.A block down."
"Perfect," Jillian said, looping her arm through Jimmy's."Harry and I were just looking for a reason to sit down.We're joining you."
Harry looked at me, an expression of profound apology flickering across his face.He knew I hated surprises.But he also knew Jillian Morris, and clearly, he had learned that resistance was a waste of energy.
"Of course you are," I said, the words tasting like copper.
* * *
The restaurant was loud, smelling of garlic and old wood.We were led to a booth in the back, away from the windows.It was the kind of place where the waiters had seen everything and cared about nothing.
A bottle of Montepulciano appeared on the table within minutes.Jillian poured four glasses with the practiced hand of a woman who didn't wait for permission.
I sat across from Harry, the silence between us heavy.For three years, Harry had been my shadow.He knew my coffee order, my dry cleaning schedule, and which politicians I secretly loathed.He was the only person who saw me without the makeup and the lighting.And now, he was sitting across from me with Jimmy's best friend.
Jillian set her glass down with a definitive thud.She folded her hands on the table and looked at us both.
"All right," she said."Let's stop the theater.It's exhausting for everyone involved."
Jimmy reached for his wine, his hand trembling slightly."Jillian, don't."
"Don't what?Pretend I don't have eyes?Pretend Harry doesn't have eyes?"Jillian leaned forward."Nelson, you're a professional interrogator.You tell me — if you saw two people walking down Ninth Avenue with that much electricity between them, what would your lead story be?"
I stayed silent.I didn't look at Jimmy.I looked at Harry."How long, Harry?"
Harry took a slow sip of his water.He looked tired."A couple of weeks," he said quietly."Give or take a day."
"And you didn't think to mention it?"
"In my defense," Harry said, his voice regaining some of its dry, understated humor, "I figured it out from the second coffee mug."
I frowned."The what?"
"The blue ceramic mug," Harry said."The one that's been appearing in your dressing room every day before I arrive with your actual coffee.I thought I was losing my mind at first, thinking I'd brought it and forgotten.Then I realized I hadn't.There is only one other person in the building with the clearance to bypass the floor director's station and get into your suite."
He looked at Jimmy."I admire your tradecraft, Mr.Goodman.But the mug was a tell."
Jimmy made a small, stifled sound — a laugh that was dangerously close to a sob.
"The point is," Jillian said, her voice losing its edge and becoming something closer to concerned, "the two of you are doing that thing you always did, even back in college.You're building a fortress and thinking no one can see the smoke coming out of the chimney.Harry and I have been having dinner with each other just to talk each other down from the ledge."
"You've been talking about us?"Jimmy's mouth dropped open.
"We've been comparing notes," Jillian corrected."Jimmy, you've been glowing like a radioactive isotope.And Nelson…" She paused, her eyes softening in a way that made me want to flinch."You've been looking… peaceful.Which, frankly, is terrifying for the rest of us."
The rest of the dinner was a blur of heavy red wine and breadsticks that tasted like sawdust.Harry and Jillian did most of the talking, a strange, frantic duet of stories and observations.Mostly about Jimmy and me, and how inevitable our reunion seemed.Unused to being the main topic of any conversation, I reverted to silence.
I felt Jimmy's knee brush against mine under the table.He didn't pull away.He leaned into the contact, a silent anchor in the middle of the storm.
When the bill came, Harry reached for it, but I beat him to it."My treat," I murmured."For your discretion."
The cab ride home was a study in sensory overload.
The car smelled of a sickly sweet cinnamon air freshener and the lingering ghost of a previous passenger's cologne.Jimmy was leaning against my shoulder, the weight of his body both familiar and foreign.Two glasses of Montepulciano had softened his edges, and he was watching the lights of the West Side slide across the window in rhythmic pulses.