He looked up to find her mahogany eyes riveted on him. Sounding embarrassed, he continued, “And I was moving up the ranks. I guess I do well at following orders or something—my superiors liked me.” But not anymore, Grant thought. He had screwed up their trust in him big time.
Watching him avert his eyes, seemingly barricaded in a prison of remorse, Sophie ventured, “You really miss being in the Navy?”
He looked down. “Yeah.”
Realizing what she was doing, Sophie quickly apologized. “I’m sorry. Here I am interrogating you about your past again.” She shook her finger at herself. “Bad psychologist!”
“Our pact never to discuss the past is kind of hard to follow, huh?”
She smiled. “When I told my psychologist, Hunter, about our pact, he thought it was the dumbest idea ever.”
“He’s probably right,” Grant said, chuckling. “We were foolish to think we could be with each other while hiding our pasts. The truth is the Navy is a part of me, and I can’t pretend otherwise.” Just like my Mafia family is a part of me.
Sophie grimaced, considering how her shameful ethical breach with Logan was interwoven into her very being, though she had no desire to unravel that truth just now.
“Here we are!” Marat swooped in, placing a plate of hummus and vegetables between them, along with a basket of warm pita. “And chai iced tea,” he offered, setting down sweating glasses of the dark liquid. “The perfect refreshment for such a hot day.” Glancing at their discarded Sox hats, he inquired, “You took in the baseball game today, yes?”
When they nodded, Marat gave them a disapproving stare. “But you cheered for the wrong team, no?”
“We cheered for the winning team,” Grant corrected playfully.
“Ah, the Sox got lucky today,” said Marat. “The Cubs will persevere tomorrow, I’m sure.”
“Are we going to have to sit in another section?” Grant bantered back. “I’m a little worried about a bitter Cubs fan poisoning our food.”
Marat laughed. “Lucky for you I do not believe in sour grapes. Or sour grape leaves, for that matter.” He gestured to the appetizer. “Please enjoy.”
As Marat departed, Sophie glanced uncertainly back and forth from the appetizer to her fork.
“No utensils required,” Grant said as he scooped hummus onto a cucumber and presented it to her.
“I’ve had hummus before, you know,” she said. “Just not this flavor. What is it?”
“Roasted red pepper,” he answered, popping a loaded pita into his mouth. “It’s good, though nothing compares to Riem’s garlic hummus.”
“Who’s Riem?” Sophie asked.
Grant looked suddenly uncomfortable as Sophie studied him quizzically. “Riem is a Jordanian woman,” he finally said, causing Sophie to wonder if she was about to hear sordid details of his relationship history.
“She was Simkins’ girl.”
“Simkins? He’s your Navy buddy, right?”
He nodded. “My bunkmate.” He exhaled loudly, frustrated that he’d opened his big mouth. Eating Middle Eastern food for the first time in more than two years had unleashed a flood of memories, and now Sophie was staring at him expectantly.
“Simkins, Riem, the Mideast … um, well, they take me back to a happier time, a time before I lost it all when I got arrested, before I ruined my life.”
“Oh,” she replied, not knowing what else to say. “If you don’t want to talk about it, that’s okay. I mean, we don’t know each other very well, and it does take time to build trust.”
He reached across the table and gently clasped her hand with his long fingers. “But I do trust you, Sophie.”
Sophie smiled warmly. “It might help to talk about it. As much as I fought Jerry about seeing a psychologist, I have to admit I’m starting to feel a little better.”
Breaking off a piece of pita and dragging it across the red hummus, Grant took a deep breath before placing it in his mouth. Chewing, he realized they were breaking bread together, a sign of trust in Middle Eastern culture. There was no better time to share himself.
“I—I was trying to steal some money from a club when I got caught. I didn’t want to do it, but I had to.” His cheeks flushed with shame.
“Why did you have to do it?”
He sighed. “I thought I was protecting somebody. But there had to be a better way. I shouldn’t have agreed to do what I did. I ended up betraying—”
“All finished?” Marat interrupted, gesturing to the almost empty plate of hummus.
Grant seemed far away, ensconced in the past, so Sophie answered, “Yes, thank you.”
“Excellent.” He disappeared with the plate and basket from the table, only to swoop back moments later with their entrees. “Let’s see, we have Chicken Shwarma Salad for the lady,” he announced, setting down a crisp green mélange. “And the Mujudara Plate for the gentleman. Is there anything else I can get for you right now?”
“This looks wonderful,” Grant responded, attempting to smile. “The chef must be a Sox fan. Thank you, Marat.”
“No, the chef knows what he’s doing. He’s a Cubs fan, of course.” With an impish wink, the waiter left them alone again in his largely empty section.
Sophie took a bite of the chargrilled chicken drenched in a lemony olive-oil dressing. “Yum. Grant, this is delicious.”
He smiled. “Would you like to try some of mine?”
“If it’s half as good as this salad, I’d love to.”
He shoveled some lentils, onions, and grilled beef onto his fork and slowly raised it to her mouth.
“Interesting,” she murmured. “I like it, but I like my salad even better.”
“Yeah, this lentil dish may be an acquired taste,” he replied. “The Doha version of this dish was incredible. It’s hard to replicate in America.”
They ate a few bites before Sophie asked, “You were saying something about betrayal?”
Grant swallowed and nodded, drowning in the fury he felt toward his brother. That betrayal was too raw to discuss. If he let even a smidgen of that rage seep out, he didn’t know what would happen. Instead, he focused on another betrayal: the one he had caused himself.
“I betrayed the only father I’ve ever had. I betrayed Uncle Joe … He didn’t understand why I pulled the robbery, and I couldn’t tell him.”
Grant looked nervously toward Sophie. Her fork paused midair, and she returned his gaze, waiting for him to resume the story.
“Why, Grant? Why?”
He met his uncle’s pleading blue eyes through the visitation glass at the courthouse, his heart thumping in his chest. Logan had told him to keep quiet or Joe would pay, but he didn’t know if he could continue the silence. He was hurting Joe deeply.
“I’m sorry, sir” was all he could repeat.
Joe continued to question to no avail. Finally, resigned, he slumped in his chair, rumpling his khaki uniform. “You know what they do when you get a felony conviction, don’t you?”
Grant glanced down at his yellow jumpsuit, a different kind of uniform than he was used to. Softly he replied, “A discharge from the Navy.”
“More tea?” Marat asked.
Grant glanced confusedly at the waiter and his pitcher of iced tea. He then looked at Sophie, whose warm brown eyes were filling with tears. She averted her gaze.
“Uh, maybe later?” Grant told the waiter.
Noticing their distress, Marat nodded. “Of course, sir.”