“So,” I said.
“So . . .” He rubbed his palms against his thighs.
“How are you?” I asked, stepping into the shallow end. “Are you well?”
“Good, good,” he answered quickly. “And you?”
“Great. Everything is great,” I said, as chipper as I could be, even though I’d hardly use great to describe the tundra that my heart had become during the last two years. “I’m glad you made it,” I said, in an effort to keep going, lest any silence turn this reunion more awkward.
“And I’m glad you asked me to meet you,” he said, as if he was waiting for me to tell him why I’d wanted to meet. I didn’t, though, because when he looked at me like that, the breath fled my lungs. His eyes were soulful—they seemed to reveal a depth forged by years of heartache and tragedy.
I parted my lips to speak, but I wasn’t even sure what to say next. Did I go for lightness? For more catching-up chitchat? Or plunge straight into the heart of why I’d wanted to see him? I was so accustomed to charging into situations fearlessly, to chasing after what I wanted, but all those skills escaped me in this moment, and I was a tea bag steeping in a pot of awkward.
Fortunately, the waitress arrived and asked Michael if he wanted anything. “Club soda,” he said, and when the woman left, I tilted my head.
“So, you still detest coffee?” I asked, because that was a far easier conversation entrée than all the other things we could talk about.
“Evidently, I still do.”
“I never understood that about you,” I said, shaking my head in disbelief. Funny that we’d gotten on so well when we were younger—except about this. Our one bone of contention had been over my passionate love of the deliciously addictive substance, and his disdain of it.
“It vexed you, I know.”
“I tried to get you to like coffee. I even tried to make espresso for you.”
“You were relentless,” he said, and the corners of his lips quirked up. That smile, that lopsided grin I’d loved . . . Okay, this was better. This was a slow and steady slide back into the familiar.
“Remember when I hunted all over Vegas trying to find something like what they’d serve in a café in Paris?” I asked, reminiscing, slipping back into the time we were together years ago.
Like it was yesterday, he picked up the conversational baton. “You even used your babysitting money to buy an old espresso machine at a garage sale,” he said, and the memory of my determination and his resistance made me laugh. “Remember that?”
“I do! It was a Saturday morning. I scoured the papers for garage sales, and hunted all around the neighborhood until I located the only one I could afford.”
“Found one for ten dollars.”
I held up an index finger. “Ten dollars and twenty-five cents.”
“Ah, well. The quarter made all the difference,” he said, as the waitress brought his drink and he thanked her.
“I took it back to Becky and Sanders’s home that afternoon, and I thought I’d win you over. That if you had a proper coffee, made like we do back home, you’d be converted.” It was only coffee, but it was a thread that connected us to the distant past, when our lives were so much simpler. It was a far easier topic than the present, and certainly less painful than the words said the last time we saw each other, on that heartbreaking day in Marseilles after he’d sent a letter that had torn me to pieces.
“Alas, I was inconvertible.” He took a swallow of the club soda. “So, what brings you to town?”
“Work.”
He frowned and glanced from side to side, like he was sweeping the bar for trouble. “There’s a war in Vegas I’m not aware of?”
I laughed and shook my head. “I’m not a photojournalist any longer. Now I shoot fashion—lingerie and boudoir. I’m here doing the high-end catalog for Veronica’s,” I said, naming the famous lingerie chain with which I’d nabbed a plum gig. “Some of the shoots are at The Cosmopolitan and around town. We did the Venetian canals earlier today. Caesars Palace is tomorrow.”
“So this is you now,” he said, waving a hand at me. “Shooting barely dressed women in silk and lace instead of racing across the desert in a Humvee?”
I nodded. “From shrapnel to strapless.”
“What happened to make you switch?” The question was direct.
So was my answer. “Death happened.”
So did heartbreak and unfinished love.
He nodded in agreement, his expression turning somber. He cleared his throat. “I’m sorry to hear about Julien.”
My throat hitched, but only briefly. I’d cried enough to end California’s drought. “Thank you.”
More quickly than I’d expected—and I was eminently grateful not to linger on talk of Julien with this man—Michael led us out of that conversation, returning to safer ground. “Do you enjoy fashion more?”
I glanced up at the ceiling, considering. That was a tough question. I’d loved the adrenaline rush of photojournalism, the thrill of chasing a story that didn’t want to be found, the chance to capture an image that would show my nation the truth of what was happening in the world, whether during my time in the Middle East, or covering breaking news across Europe for a French news agency. But the job became too risky and the costs too high, so I’d pivoted.
I had no regrets.
I met his eyes to answer. “Yes. I like fashion better now. I love what I do.”
We chatted more as I told him tales of the models and their over-the-top requests at shoots—from the imperious blonde who required celery sticks chilled to a crisp sixty-five degrees, to the willowy brunette who would only drink artesian water—and how it compared to the bare-bones style of hunting images in my combat boots, cargo pants, and photographer’s vest, in one of the most dangerous areas of the world.
“What about you, Michael? You’re not fronting a band. I didn’t see your guitar in any of your company photos,” I said, nudging his arm gently. His strong, toned arm. So firm. I was going to need a reason to nudge him again.
He shrugged. “That was high school. I was just messing around in the garage with friends. I don’t play much anymore.”
“What happened to going to Seattle and becoming the next rock star?” I asked, then my stomach dropped. “Merde. I’m sorry,” I said, heat flaming across my cheeks. How could I have been so foolish? I knew the answer. I lowered my chin, embarrassed.
His hand touched mine. My breath caught the instant he made contact. “It’s okay. It was just a teenage dream.”
Just a teenage dream. We’d had so many. They’d felt so real at the time.
“We had a lot of those,” I said softly.
“We did.” He looked away. His jaw was set hard, but when he returned his gaze to me, he simply said, “I barely think about all those crazy dreams. I like my life now. I like running the security business. That’s why I’ll work on a Sunday. Speaking of work, how long are you in town?”
“A few days,” I said, and my voice rose higher, as it did when I was nervous. Because the first thing I’d thought when I landed this assignment was—Michael. Like a big, blaring sign. A flashing light at the end of a road. I had to see him, find him, connect with him. “I’m glad you’re happy now . . . Michael Sloan.” I paused, his new last name rolling around strangely on my tongue. “I’m trying to get used to it. Sloan.”