Page 39 of Stay Awake
“I’ve been keeping myself busy with a new venture,” says Dean, veering into a monologue about an organic vegan oatmeal latte company that he’s invested in. “We’ve given baskets of the product to celebrities. They love how it fits in with their eco values. Hey, are you still writing about food at that magazine,Cultura? I heard you were working for them in London.”
“Actually, I’m not there anymore,” I say, remembering the alien feeling of not belonging when I visited the office earlier.
He visibly deflates and his eyes wander restlessly around the deli as if he’s looking for an escape route. That’s when I realize why he was so keen to have lunch with me. He brought me here to butter me up so I’d do a write-up on his oatmeal latte venture.
Dean glances at his gold Rolex and taps his fingers on the table impatiently as he looks longingly toward the waitress, almost beseeching her to hurry up and bring his food. When the silence gets too heavy, and he realizes he has no choice but to kill time with me until the food arrives, he asks what brought me to this neighborhood.
“Shoe shopping. I need boots for winter.” I’m surprised at how easily I lie. “I went into a store that was having a sale on Italian boots. While I was there, the shop assistant told me someone was murdered in the building across the street.”
“So that’s why there were police everywhere!” he says. “The world is going back to the bad old days. You probably weren’t even born in the eighties, Liv. Trust me, in those days a person couldn’t walk down the block without getting mugged. Not to mention murdered. There were murders all the time. You can’t imagine how crazy…”
He stops midsentence as if he’s spoken out of turn. Then he breaksoff a bit of breadstick from the complimentary bread basket on the table and pops it into his mouth, chewing it deliberately slowly as he stares at me with an intensity that fills me with trepidation.
The waitress puts a tall glass of freshly squeezed lemonade in front of me and places a Coke bottle and a glass of crushed ice in front of Dean.
“Your order will be ready shortly,” she tells him.
He straightens his cutlery until the silverware is arranged with military precision. He moves the Coke can so that it’s exactly above the tip of the knife. He puts the glass next to the Coke can, but not so close that it’s touching. The salt shaker goes to the left. The pepper shaker to the right. The hot sauce goes just behind the salt. He puts the ketchup right behind the pepper. He does all of this with laser-sharp focus.
When he’s done, he looks up as if he’s just remembered I’m here. His eyes land on my hands as I sip my lemonade. I can tell he’s noticed the messages scribbled all over them.
I lower the glass and put my hands in my lap so the writing is out of sight, but Dean’s seen enough of it that I feel I need to acknowledge it.
“Bad habit. My mom used to make me scrub it off with soap and water when I did it as a kid.”
“So why do you still do it?”
I instinctively shrug and then immediately regret it. This is the opportunity I’ve been looking for to segue into asking him to tell me what he knows about my life over the past two years. It’s blindingly clear from his comments that he knows more than I do. I pluck up my courage. “I have issues remembering things…”
“Memory problems! Tell me about it,” he cuts in. “I’m not sure if they’re a blessing or a curse. There are some things I’d rather forget. Like my ex,” he says, laughing at his own joke. “I mean, what was Ithinking, marrying Emily? She sure wasn’t the sharpest tool in the shed. All my kids said so, but I was in love. Lust. Whatever.”
The waitress leans across and puts his sandwich and a bowl of pickles on the table. “How about you, Liv?” he asks, as he unfolds a napkin and puts it on his lap. “Tell me about your life since we last saw each other.”
His question hits me like a sucker punch. I have no answer to give him because I don’t know myself what my life has been like for the past two years.
For a moment I can’t breathe or move at all. When I can, I scramble up and mutter something about needing the restroom. In the ladies’, I lean over the sink to hold myself up as my body trembles violently. I’m having a panic attack. I splash my face and take in a series of deep breaths until I’ve calmed down. Then I lift up my top and stare at the scar below my rib cage in the restroom mirror. It’s a horrible feeling, knowing that my body has been disfigured and I don’t remember what happened.
Dean’s eating when I come out of the restroom. I stand out of his line of vision and watch him add mustard and mayo to his sandwich. Two spoons of each. Three shakes of salt. Two of pepper. His obsessiveness chills me.
I steel myself before returning to the table, uncertain how much to confide in Dean.
As I move toward the table, a phone rings. I freeze midstep. The old-fashioned ringtone cuts through all the noise. It feels as if everyone in the restaurant has frozen, and time is standing still. The only sound in the deli is the insistent ring of the phone. Each successive shrill ring makes me more tense until I’m as taut as a high wire.
I feel I’ll snap if the phone doesn’t stop ringing.
Numbly, I walk to our table. “I’m sorry,” I tell Dean, as he bites intohis sandwich. He stares back at me, his beady eyes blinking rapidly. “I really need to go.”
Before he can do anything, I run out of the deli and down a nearby set of stairs into the subway.
Chapter
Twenty-Four
Two Years Earlier
A saxophonist plays a solo that sounds like a jazzed-up version ofBoléroas I walk into Café Lisbon. Winding my way around tables in the crowded fusion restaurant, I catch sight of Amy and Marco. They’re sitting next to each other at a long table that Amy reserved for the evening.
They’re the only people at the crowded table not looking at the band. For once they’re talking in a civilized manner. I’m relieved they’re getting along.
