Page 210 of Ricardo

Dante sits beside me, one arm resting near the door, his gaze angled out the window. His profile is all hard lines and restraint. He looks older tonight. Or maybe I am just seeing him for the first time as the Dante everyone else sees.

Chicago at night moves past us. Wet pavement. Streetlights. A woman in a silver coat stepping out of a restaurant. A man holding a cigarette between two fingers while he watches traffic with vacant boredom.

I should say something else.

I have wanted to say something for weeks.

Every time my phone stayed silent, every time I drafted a text and deleted it.

Now he is six inches away from me, and my throat feels closed.

My stomach turns with a sudden, sharp wave of nausea.

I breathe through my nose.

The smell of the leather is stronger back here than I remember. So is the faint scent of champagne from the party, though I didn’t even drink any. Perfume swirls around me.

I press my fingers lightly against my abdomen.

Dante’s gaze moves to me, then away.

“You’re pale,” he says.

His voice is flat.

Still, it’s something.

“I’m just tired.”

“You barely ate.”

I look at him.

He keeps staring out the window.

“How do you know that?”

He doesn't answer.

The only way he could know that is if he was watching.

And if he was watching… maybe there's a chance?

“I was nervous.”

“You had nothing to be nervous about. Everything was perfect.”

Outside, traffic slows at a light. Red washes briefly over his face.

He reaches to the small console beside him, opens it, and pulls out a bottle of water. He holds it toward me without looking.

“Drink.”

“I’m fine,” I say.

“I didn’t ask.”

The words are automatic.