The Good Liar(30)

“You going to keep that for our next interview?”

“Now there’s a thought. You are a tough nut to . . . crack. Ugh, that’s terrible.”

“It is.”

He opens up the body of his crab and takes a pull from his beer. He’s dressed in a slightly nicer version of his usual uniform—the blue-gray shirt is a button-down, and the jeans have a darker wash to them. The forest-green sweater he’s wearing over his shirt complements the rest of it, which I almost tell him, then don’t, because I have no idea how to do this, be casual with a man. Flirt with him.

“But seriously,” Teo says. “Is this place okay? We can go somewhere else next time, if you want.”

“Next time, huh?”

“I think you made me blush.”

“I do love this place; I don’t need anything fancier. And as to whether there’ll be a ‘next time,’ why don’t we see how this evening goes and then decide?”

“That sounds like a good plan.”

“I am curious, though.” I bite into my own crab claw and nearly moan in pleasure. It’s been too long since I ate something this good, despite the best intentions of my neighbors. “What makes you think I like fancy restaurants?”

“Didn’t you used to run a fancy restaurant?”

“I did.”

I look down at the label on my beer. Brewed right here in Chicago, it says.

“Sorry. It was in your background info . . . I guess it’s weird that I know all these things about you without even having to ask.”

“No, it’s fine. The restaurant’s not a secret.” I look up and smile. “I managed Knife & Fork for fifteen years, and I loved every minute of it.”

“I ate there a couple times.”

“You did?”

“Yup. Great food.”

“Funny to think of us being there at the same time and not even knowing it.”

“Life’s often like that. It’s closed now, isn’t it? What happened?”

“We were shaky after the last recession and never quite recovered. The owners were getting close to retirement and had the opportunity to sell for a lot of money. For the location. The buyers didn’t want the restaurant. There’s some Italian franchise there now.”

“You didn’t want to stay on?”

“No. I . . . We’d actually tried to buy it ourselves, but it didn’t work out.”

We’d scraped together everything we had to put up the earnest money. And then I’d stupidly assumed that fifteen years of loyalty would win me the space, the chance to make it my own. I’d gotten way ahead of myself, commissioning architectural plans that cost the earth and signing a contract with an up-and-coming chef. When the owners “went another way,” I was left holding the bag. Jobless, in debt, heartbroken.

I sincerely hope this information isn’t in his file, or anyone else’s, either.

“That must’ve been tough,” Teo says.

“It was. But life moves on.”

“When did all this happen?”

“A few years ago. I was sad for a while, but I’m over it.”

Tom had never gotten over it. Not the betrayal by the Urbans, who we’d always thought of as family. Not the bad judgment he thought I’d shown in putting all that money down before things were a certainty, even though we’d decided to do it together. When I’d run into Seth Urban a couple weeks before Tom died and made the mistake of telling Tom about it, he flew into a rage, just as angry, angrier even, as he’d been when it had all fallen apart.

“I like that about you,” Teo says.

“What’s that?”

“Your forgiving nature.”

“Does it say that in your background info? Because that would be wrong.”

“You sure? I’m usually a good judge of character.”

I stuff some seafood in my mouth, then chase it down with beer. “So what do you think of Franny, then? You keep asking me about her, but you never say what you think.”

“I think she’s interesting.”

“She talks about you a lot. I think she might have a crush.”

“Oh?”

“‘When I was speaking with Teo the other day,’ or ‘Teo was asking me in our last interview.’ Things like that. I shouldn’t have said that.”

“It’s fine.”

“No, I hate when I do that.”

“What?”

“Rat other people out. Not that she’s said anything, I wouldn’t betray a confidence, but . . . God, I can’t believe I’m telling you this.”

“You don’t have to.”

“No, I do. I just . . . When I’ve figured something out about someone, I usually end up telling other people. It’s this weird form of showing off. I hate it. But I can’t seem to stop myself from doing it.”

“I think you’re making a bigger deal of it than it is.”

“If you say so.”

I watch him for a moment across the table. He’s a careful eater, even with this messy food. Sometimes Tom would eat so quickly, his face would get covered with sauce like when the kids were little. But I should stop this, comparing these two. They have nothing in common but me, and maybe not even that.