Oh fucking well.
He’d give just about anything to be back in Southie, beating the shit out of a heavy bag, feeling nothing. But if the price was letting Laurel down, he wasn’t willing to pay it.
It was mid-March, and a springy March at that. Only a few scabs of brown snow still clung to the shadier sidewalks, and the air smelled good, like winter was officially in the rearview. The sky was blue beyond the restaurant’s tall windows; the days were getting longer.
Laurel was getting stronger. Seeming more like her old self.
Flynn wished he could say the same.
I know this feeling. I’ve lived through it before.
It was grief. No mistaking it. But grief this real and this nagging, for a near-microscopic little— A tap on his shoulder turned Flynn’s head, and there she was. Smiling, looking gorgeous. Looking happy, her red hair pulled back in a ponytail and a few inches of bare leg visible between the tops of her fancy boots and the hem of a wool skirt. Her coat was folded over her arm.
“Hey, beautiful.” He stood and kissed her cheek, pulled out the opposite chair for her.
“Hey. Thanks.” She draped her coat over the chair back and sat, letting him go through that weird charade of pretending like he was helping as she scooted her seat in.
“Didn’t see you come in,” he said, sitting.
“There’s two doors. Sorry I’m late.”
“Barely.”
“You look quite sexy,” she said, bobbing her eyebrows. “Nice sweater.”
He mustered a smile, feeling like a fraud. “Thanks. My old lady got it for me.”
“Not so old.” She pulled a menu over.
“You look hot as fuck,” he told her. Her legs drove him up a wall. Always had. He wished she wore skirts more often. It was nice to catch himself thinking it, too. The past couple weeks hadn’t exactly been erotic.
The miscarriage was one thing of course. Pain, both physical and emotional, had consumed her, and being the strong one had consumed him in return. Even now, with the physical business of it done and Laurel seeming all but normal, he wasn’t ready for sex yet, himself. She might like to go on about his lack of squeamishness when it came to the female body, but he was intimidated by the whole prospect. Not grossed out, just…worried. Worried he might hurt her. Worried she’d cry. Worried he’d fuck it all up, and on the other end worried they’d never get back there, never be the same again.
But something about the skirt and the boots gave him the thinnest sliver of hope.
“Why the getup?” he asked.
“I have my reasons.” She was wearing makeup, too. Mascara, and the stuff you put on the lids that Flynn could never remember the name of. “I’ve worn nothing but jeans and pajamas and my work clothes for two weeks,” she said. “I guess I got sick of looking at myself.”
“Well, you look awesome.”
She blushed, visibly, even in the low light. “You too.”
The waitress arrived with two glasses of ice water and greeted Laurel. “A drink for you?”
Laurel scrambled for the wine list. “Oh, let’s see… Whatever you’d recommend that’s red and dry and less than eight bucks a glass…?”
“Ignore the bit about the price,” Flynn cut in.
“I can personally vouch for either the Syrah or the Round Pond cabernet,” the waitress offered.
“Syrah, please.”
“Do you two need a few more minutes with the menus?”
“Yes, thanks. No rush.” Laurel flashed a big smile. For obvious reasons, she was exceedingly nice to wait staff and always bullied Flynn into tipping way more than he normally would.
Once the waitress was gone, he said, “Haven’t seen you drink in ages.”
“Yeah, I haven’t. Not since before the test. I wanted to make sure I wasn’t self-medicating, but since I feel pretty good today, I figure why not?”
Lucky you. He caught himself, shamed by the petty thought. “Good for you.”
“How was work?” She was just a little off, he noticed. Nervous? Guilty?
“Same old shit,” he said. “Minus the usual workout. Tell me about your day.”
Oh, there it was—that smile. Definitely nervous. “It was…good.”
“You look like you got somethin’ to share. Spill it.”
She bit her lip, pink cheek going round, making his belly all warm. “Well, I applied for two more jobs.”
“Nice. Where?”
“Both on the T, or close to it. One’s downtown, the other’s in Malden. That makes seven I’ve applied for this week.”
“Fuckin’ fantastic. You interested in either of them?”
She shrugged. “Enough. Anything in my field is what I’m after. No more being picky,” she said, sitting up straight. “I used that as an excuse for way too long.”
“Well, good job.”
“Thanks.” She was doing it again, looking all cagey.
“What?”
She leaned in, the end of her ponytail brushing the table. “I got invited to interview.”
He blinked. “You did?”
She nodded, any cool act she’d been mustering gone in an instant. “I did.”