"Okay, well, I’ll pick you up at seven. Text me your address." I walk into my apartment and toss the flowers to Johnson, who’s standing in the corner with a grin that’s showing off two gold teeth.
"I’ll just meet you at the restaurant," she whispers as the laughing fades.
"Why do I feel like you aren’t going to show up?" I ask, unbuttoning my charcoal-gray dress shirt while heading into my bedroom to change.
"I’ll be there," she assures me, but the slight quiver in her voice reveals her lie.
"Look, if you’ve changed your mind, you can just tell me. I’m really not used to forcing women to go on dates with me. This whole conversation is not doing good things for my ego right now," I joke, trying to put her at ease. Her anxiety is unexpected based on the woman I met earlier this week.
"No, it’s not that. I’m just nervous," she confesses just as Johnson walks into the room, temporarily tearing my attention away from the phone.
"Yo, Leo. We need to move. Sanders arrives at O’Hare in an hour."
"Load up the truck and get the men briefed. I’ll be right out," I respond before focusing back on Sarah. "All right. Talk to me. What are you nervous about?"
"No, it’s okay. I’ll let you go. I’ll see you tomorrow night."
"Are you really going to show up? At least tell me how long should I wait before ordering dinner to go?"
"An hour," she says with a sigh.
"Sarah—" I start to let her off the hook, but she interrupts me.
"I mean, given the way we met, we’ve established that punctuality is not exactly my strong suit. An hour will give me plenty of time in case of a hair emergency, wardrobe malfunction, or cabbie sabotage. I should definitely be able to make it there by eight." Her teasing answer makes me smile.
"Well, you want to plan on eight then? Ya know, just to be safe."
"No way, because then I won’t be there until nine. Let’s just stick with seven, okay?" I can almost hear the laughter in her voice as she pretends to be annoyed.
"So, I’ll see you at seven fifty-nine." I look down, shaking my head. Thank God we are on the phone because I wouldn’t be able to contain my shit-eating grin otherwise.
"On the dot," she responds. "Oh, and, Leo, I am looking forward to seeing you. I wouldn’t want your clearly sensitive ego to go un-stroked."
I burst into laughter. "Thanks, smartass."
"No problem. Goodnight." She begins laughing before hanging up.
Seven months earlier…
I SHOULD Feel free. I should feel alive. I should feel like Leo James again. However, even in my own skin, I feel like an imposter. I’m not a man. I’m a coward.
"Leo!" Erica calls from the balcony of her hotel suite. I tried to duck out before she noticed, but she catches me just before I get to the door.
"I need to go, babe," I tell her and the light dims in her eyes.
"Not yet," she whispers, taking a step closer, her eyes already filling with tears.
"We’ve been dancing around this all day. I need to go."
"I’m not ready," she says, looping her arms around my waist.
"Yeah, you are." I smooth down her hair and gently kiss the top of her head. I glance up to find her brick wall of a man, Slate, watching us while standing in the corner. His arms are crossed over his chest, but his concern is staggering. "I’ll see you next week for the wedding," I try to reassure her, but the words catch in my throat.
The truth is that I’m nowhere near ready to leave her. Our relationship is a prime example of codependency at its finest. Her clear, blue eyes are the only things that soothe the self-loathing burning inside me. She’s also a reminder of why it burns at all. She’s the poison and the antidote wrapped into one tiny, innocent, and foul-mouthed package.
"Come on, beautiful," Slate says, guiding her arms from around my waist.
I clear my throat and give her a weak smile as she silently cries tucked into his side.
Slate extends a hand and I quickly grasp it. We may not have always had the best relationship, but I definitely consider him family now. I’d trust him with my life, and in a sense, by leaving Erica with him, I’m doing exactly that.
"You’ll be at the wedding on Saturday?" he confirms, never releasing my hand.
"Wouldn’t miss it," I smile, and it might just be the biggest lie I have ever told.
I ARRIVE at Shades just a little before seven. I know Sarah might be late, but I gave myself plenty of time to walk downstairs and across the street. I may have picked this place based on the proximity to my apartment. Maybe. Probably.
Shades is a five-star tapas restaurant and martini bar. After nine o’clock, the atmosphere changes into that of a bar, but before then, it’s a crisp, clean fine-dining experience.