Lies She Told(35)

I look at Tyler as I shiver. “Thank you.” Again, tears threaten my eyes. I close them, promising myself that I will not cry. My mascara is not waterproof, and I’ve looked pathetic in front of this man far too often.

He scratches his head. “Nah, don’t mention it. You all right?”

I chuckle. “I could really use a drink.”

“Were you meeting someone?”

“No. My mom’s watching Vicky.” I blink hard, still trying to stave off tears. “It’s a beautiful night. I didn’t want to spend it alone in the apartment.”

“It is real nice out.” He smiles. The warmth flows back into the air. I’m reminded that I’m in a twinkling city on a hot summer evening with money in my purse, no parental responsibilities, and no phone for Jake to track me down on. I came out to make the best of all this.

“Well, nice except for that guy,” I say.

He gestures to the red jersey outlining his developed pectorals and grins as though he’s done something even more spectacular than coming to my rescue. “Arsenal had a good night. That guy had been drinking himself into oblivion over it.”

My legs begin to feel normal. I test out a step toward my savior. “May I buy you a drink?”

Tyler bites his lower lip, his eyebrows raise. His head tilts to the side. I can read this expression even though I don’t know him well: That would be a bad idea, don’t you think?

“I owe you one.”

“No. You don’t. The man was out of line. Anyone would have—”

“Please.” I’m directly in front of him now. I’ve drawn closer, but he’s also stepped farther out onto the sidewalk. “It would help me feel more, I don’t know, normal.”

I catch a small flick of his tongue against his lip as he points down the street. “There’s a wine bar down that way.” He wrinkles his nose and gestures behind him. “Give me one minute to settle my tab. Too many drunks in there. I don’t want to be fighting them off all night.”

Was that a compliment? He didn’t say “off you,” but it was implied. Wasn’t it? It’s been so long since I’ve heard genuine flattery that I can’t be sure. Jake tells me I’m beautiful, but it’s a rote response. “How do I look?” “Beautiful.” “Beautiful as always.” “You know you’re beautiful.” I can’t believe him. He lies about everything.

Tyler returns with a shy smile. I ask him if I’m spoiling the game. He swears that it was over anyway and fills me in on the history of the bar. Thursday nights are for the expats, particularly the British that the banks are constantly shipping over. The owner, an Irishman, has a satellite dish propped on the back of the building. Tyler spreads his arms, displaying his impressive wingspan. “Thing is bigger than my apartment.”

I glance at his hand. There’s no ring or visible tan line around the finger, though I’m not positive I’d notice, given his darker complexion. Not that it matters. It’s just a drink, and he’s only agreed to it because he thinks I’m a fragile soon-to-be-divorced patient who might do something drastic. This is pity date, courtesy of the Hippocratic oath.

I ask him about the game, even though I’m not interested in soccer and only have a vague sense of how it’s played. Clearly, he’s a fan. He boasts about a Trinidadian “right-back” who plays on Arsenal and came very close to scoring in the recent match. I like hearing him talk. His baritone is deep and comforting, a good voice for his profession. Moreover, it’s taking much of my concentration to keep pace with his stride without wrenching my ankle in my stilettos. Instead of looking at him, I’m forced to eye the ground for subway grates.

The wine bar reminds me of the inside of a barrel. The ceiling is wooden with exposed beams that arch toward a line in the center. The floor is cork. It’s dark, lit only by electric candles on the tables and three hanging pendant lights above the bar. The counter is a slab of unfinished wood staffed by a young man in a black apron and button-down. Behind him are rows of exposed shelves alternately topped with bottles and bell-shaped glasses of various sizes.

The bar is nearly full. I start toward the only visible free stool, figuring that we’ll both hover around it for our drink. Tyler’s fingers brush my bicep. He gestures to a table in the corner. “It’s seat yourself here.”

I follow him and perch on the inside stool, back against a brick wall. He straddles the outside seat, closer to the door, and waves over one of the waitresses. She brings a menu and asks what kind of wine we like. I’m about to say Cabernet but think better of it. Red makes me weepy. Instead, I ask for a dry white. She suggests a sauvignon blanc from New Zealand with herbal, peppery notes, which I say sounds great, though I never taste anything in white wine besides pear and acid. Maybe the postpregnancy senses will change that. When Tyler says he’ll have the same, she recommends that we buy the bottle. It’s ten dollars more and we’ll get two additional glasses for the cost of one.

“Sure.” I glance at Tyler to see if his expression disagrees.

He gives a noncommittal shrug. “Good value.”

I watch her head off to the bar and then return my attention to Tyler. He’s out of place here in his soccer jersey, jeans, and sneakers. But he’s so handsome that he makes the button-down set look overdressed.