He showed up at the pet store at exactly seven o’clock. He was wearing his single-breasted Armani suit. A white dress shirt, no tie. Lauren was closing up the shop, but somehow she’d already changed into a summer dress.
“You look great,” Mason said when he saw her.
“Thank you,” she said. “So where are we going?”
“Maybe we just park on Halsted,” he said. “Walk around.”
Max was pawing at his gate the whole time. Mason went over to put a hand on his head, and Lauren kissed the dog on the nose. She stood up close to Mason. She smiled to break the tension. Then they both left the store and got in the Camaro. She knew enough about cars to be impressed.
“I can’t imagine what it cost to restore this thing,” she said.
“I wouldn’t know,” he said, leaving more questions than answers.
She looked over at him, her expression saying she still hadn’t figured this guy out yet. Mason put the car in gear and they headed down the avenue. They parked in a lot, got out, and started walking north on Halsted Street. Tall brick buildings had shops and restaurants on the first floors, apartments above them. It felt a little strange to Mason because although this same street ran all the way down through the city, across the river, past Bridgeport, along the western edge of Canaryville, down there it was just a wide street with empty, weed-filled lots on one side, low, faceless buildings on the other. It’s like he was in a different city now with a street name that made you think of home.
They walked under the El just as a train rushed by above them, then found a restaurant on the eastern side of the street and stepped inside. It looked like the right kind of place—a bar and some tables, nice enough without being too much, and mostly full. The greeter promised them a table if they wouldn’t mind sitting at the bar for a few minutes.
Mason ordered a Goose Island. Lauren had the same. They sat there and clinked their bottles together and there was another awkward silence. Mason couldn’t remember the last time he’d stood next to a woman in a bar and tried to make conversation.
That made him think about all the nights he was out with Gina, just standing close to her, the way they didn’t have to say anything at all. And then when they got back home . . . No, he said to himself. Don’t go there.
“So Max stays there in the store by himself?” he said to Lauren, looking for something, anything, to talk about. “Every night?”
“He’s fine. The cats keep him company. And he guards the place at night.”
“What happens when he comes to live with me? Who’s gonna guard the shop?”
“It’ll be a little strange not having him there,” she said, “but he’s going to have a new home. That’s what he needs.”
“He’ll like the town house.” Then he thought about Diana. Probably should have said something to her, he thought.
“Maybe I’ll get the chance to come see him there. Or if you want me to just bring him over . . .” Lauren gave him a little shy smile and he was about to say something, but then the waiter came over and showed them to their table.
After fitting them with menus and lighting the candle, the waiter walked away and they were back to the awkward silence.
“So I’ve been trying not to ask,” Lauren said, “but you live in a Lincoln Park town house and you drive around in a vintage Camaro. What exactly do you do?”
“I’m the assistant manager of a restaurant.”
She looked surprised. “Which one?”
He fumbled on it for a moment, blanking on the name. That wouldn’t be the greatest answer to give her. Funny, I don’t even remember.
“Antonia’s,” he said. “On Rush Street.”
“How’s business these days? I imagine it might be tough for a high-end place.”
“We’re hanging in there.”
She nodded and took a sip of her beer.
He took a long hit off his beer. “Okay, listen,” he said, putting his beer down. “I gotta tell you something.”
She put her arms on the table and leaned in to hear what he had to say.
“I’ll just say it. I did some time in a federal penitentiary. Just got out. The part about me being an assistant manager, that’s true. But I’m just starting there.”
“Okay,” she said, working it over in her head. “You get out of prison and you go right to one of the top restaurants in town?”
“The conviction was overturned.”
“Oh!” she said, her face brightening. “You see that in the paper, somebody going to jail for something they didn’t do. Finally getting out years later.”
“It’s prison, not jail. But, yeah.”
“Prison, jail—what’s the difference?”
“The amount of time you’re there,” he said.
“How long was it?”
“Five years.”
“You’re telling me you did five years for a crime you didn’t commit? Are they gonna make that right? Pay you something?”
“No.”
“They should,” she said. “You lost five years of your life. They have to do something about that.”
“Not gonna happen.”
“What did they say you were guilty of?”
He hesitated.
“A robbery.”
“They thought you were there,” she said. “A case of mistaken identity.”