Chapter four

A new client had reached out through a referral, asking for a private dinner for four. No names just an address in the west loop and a generous deposit. I didn’t think twice, most private clients preferred discretion. The apartment was sleek, all marble glass. A woman who appeared to be in fifties let me in, she introduced herself as Lisa and informed me she was the house keeper. She led me to the pristine kitchen, fully equipped and furnished. It was spotless in a way that made me sad to mess it up by cooking in it. Lisa informed me my client was in a meeting and would arrive before I was finished.

Halfway through prepping, I heard the door open behind me, I turned to give Lisa a smile that froze on face when I beheld the person who walked in. His dark hair ruffled like he had ran his hands through it sevrally. His face set in an apprehensive smile. He took two steps forward and leaned against the kitchen highland. Wearing a black t-shirt that hugged his toned and muscled body, a baggy jean that made him appear different yet the same.

“Hey Sasha.” He said, still wearing that stupid smile.

I dropped the knife and sneered at him,

“You booked me? How did you find me? I never told you I was a chef.”

I was simmering with anger and  confused at the same time. I needed  to keep it together.

He tilted his head observing me. “I needed to see you, you blocked me. I had to do some research. I’m sorry but it was the only way I thought I could see you.”

I was dumbfounded. “ I blocked you cause I didn’t want to speak to you or see you, wasn’t that clear enough?”

He recoiled and turned briefly. When he faced me again he just said.  

“Fine, then it’s just work, go ahead and finish up, I’ll pay for your time.”

The words “pay for your time” stung and it hurt like hell. Something inside me tightened. Anger, hurt, something harder to name. I just turned away and placed a pan on the stove, oil hissing as it met the pan. I was going to finish preparing the meal and get the hell out. He can go screw himself. “Dinner will be ready in forty minutes.” I said, with a controlled and calm tone. He watched me a moment longer and quietly walked out the kitchen.

After cooking, I plated  the the food with expertise and set it on the dining, where he was already seated. There was grilled salmon, charred lemon, roasted vegetable, steak and mashed potato. I was about to go clean up, so I could leave when he held my wrist and said without looking at me.

“Please sit Sasha.”

 I looked around. “The booking specified four guests, where are your guests?” I  removed my wrist from his grasp and folded my hands behind me.

“There’s no one else joining, please seat and have dinner with me.”

The dejected tone of his voice had me obliging. I quietly sat down on the chair farthest from him and served myself.

For a long time he didn’t speak. He just ate slowly, like he was savoring the food. The click of cutlery against porcelain filling the silence. Then without looking at me he said.

“It was supposed to be casual, but forgetting you, has proven quite difficult, I can’t seem to do casual with you. It’s been impossible to shake you off.”

I looked at the meal on my  plate, tossing it around.  “I don’t date men who treat me like entertainment, I especially do not date married men.”

He finally looked up from his plate. “I’m divorced, three years. I have two kids, they live with their mother most of the time, but we share custody.”

 I felt my  throat tighten. “You didn’t mention that.”

He sighed. “That morning…I didn’t mean to leave the way I did, I just—”  He hesitated, eyes lifting to meet mine.

 “I didn’t know what to do with how real it felt. I’ve gone a while  just keeping it simple, but there was nothing simple about that night.”  

I  crossed my arms on the table, not knowing what to do with this new information.

 “That’s not justification for making me feel like cheap trash before you left that morning.”

He sighed and and ran his hands across his face. “I really am sorry, please let me make it up to you, let me get to know you.”

 This time, when he reach for me, I didn’t withdraw my hands. We talked a lot over dinner, I got to know he works as an architect, own a firm actually. I asked if this was his house.

 “It is but I don’t live here, I host guests here for private gatherings.”

 I slowly nodded.

 He asked about my family, I told him my dad passed five years ago, just when I turned twenty. My mother bailed on Monica and I, my baby sister. I didn’t mention that Monica was an addict and currently in rehab. That was too much personal information. At 11pm, I was ready to leave. He offered to drop me off, I told him I drove. He hugged me, we said goodnight and I left.

Crest called the next day and the day after. We were slowly building up a communication routine. He never went to bed without calling to say goodnight. As always, his voice was steady and careful when he called one evening.

“I want to see you, but properly this time, dinner, somewhere nice.”

 I  didn’t realize how hard I was smiling until he spoke again.

“Please let me show you how much I want to get to know you.”

 I told him a was going to think about it. Every other day, he sent little texts, asking about my day, my work, if I was stressed out, what I liked to cook when it was just me. I liked that he wanted to know the basic things about me. When he asked where I lived over the phone, if he could drop by sometime, I stuttered.

The truth was, my apartment was dilapidated, a one bedroom walk up near Pilsen, cracked tiles, a leaky faucet that coughed before it ran. The house was shabby even though it reminded me of my father and a time when my family was whole. I couldn’t imagine him standing in my doorway, tall and polished polished in all his glory. The kind of man who lived in spaces that didn’t echo. The thought made my stomach knot so I lied.

 “Small mess right now, it’s being renovated.”

He didn’t question it, just said, “then I’ll wait till it’s done.”

I’d find another excuse.

I sat back in the half light of the kitchen, staring at the peeling paint above the stove. I told myself it wasn’t shame. It was self respect. But the truth was I didn’t want him to see me like this, in this apartment. For weeks, Crest and I solidified our relationship through frequent texts and calls. He was busy most times, but the fact that he makes out time for me made me feel special. I was comfortable, content even. There had  been men in my life before, a couple of brief relationships that couldn’t stand the test of time,  because those men were douchbags. Crest made it feel right and easy. He hadn’t officially asked me to be his girlfriend yet, but I was positive I would say yes when he asked.

Crest chose a small restaurant tucked between galleries on a quiet street for our date. Low light, linen napkins, the kind of place where the waiters spoke softly and the wine list had no prices. I almost didn’t come. I changed my outfit twice, then three times. Why didn’t I shop for something sophisticated? I settled on a red dress I bought for my birthday last year. It accentuated my curves. He was already there when I arrived. Standing to greet me, he smiled and I drank him in, he was fine. Grey tuxedo, sleek shiny hair, he looked too good to be real. He stared at me like he was unable to form words, let out a low whistle before saying,

“You look…” he paused, his eyes softened, “breathtaking.”

I laughed under my breath just as the waiter poured wine.

For hours, as we ate, we talked about food, music, the city. He asked me questions, real ones, and actually listened. Everything in that moment felt natural. The night had gone perfectly and I was more than content. Dinner had been soft laughter, half finished glasses of wine, a quiet warmth of two people who connected. With a full belly and fuller heart, we walked out of the restaurant.

He opened the passenger door of his car for me, smiling.  “Come on. I’ll take you home.”

My smile faltered. “No it’s fine, I drove.” A lie, I took a cab.

His smile remained as he insisted. “You had two glasses of wine, let me drop you off.”

 I didn’t move.

“I’ll have someone pick up your car in the morning if that’s what you’re worried about.” He said it like it was a just simple, kind gesture, which it was.

Under the pressure of his assessing gaze, I snapped. “ I said I drove, it’s fine I didn’t drink myself to the point of being unable to drive.”

He frowned, studying me. “Why are you being like this? It’s just a ride.”

I looked away. “It’s not just a ride.”

He stepped closer, voice low.

 “You think I’m going to follow you inside? I’m not trying to…”

I bristled and with a sharp voice. “It’s not about that, I just don’t want you to, is that so complex?”

He blinked hurt flashing across his face. He schooled his features to remain neutral.

“Then let me at least walk you to your car.”

I shook my head.

“Why not?”

The question hung there, so simple but impossible to answer. Because my building smells like damp paint, because the elevator doesn’t work half the time, because you’d see the second hand furnitures, the chipped tiles. The life I was barely keeping together. Because I can’t stand the look you’d try to hide when you saw it. But I didn’t say any of that, I just looked away defensively.

“Because  I said no.”

He nodded once, jaw tightening. “Alright, drive safe.”

He turned and got into his car without another word. The slam of the door echoed louder than it should have. Just like that, a perfect night ruined. I stood there, watching his taillights disappear down the street, two small red glows fading into the dark. By the time my cab arrived, my hands were shaking. I told myself it was better this way. But it hurt badly, being seen and still wanting to hide.