Page 90 of The Quiet Tenant

He owes me an explanation. At least a lie. I want to watch him squirm, stumble over his words, look at his feet. I want him embarrassed and I want him sorry.

I keep my eyes peeled. At the grocery store, at the coffee shop. This isn’t a bustling metropolis where people go unnoticed. He’s bound to show up somewhere.

Around lunchtime, I drive into town. Check the sandwich place, the drugstore. Nothing. I look for his truck on Main Street, but still no dice.

My luck turns at sunset. I’m not even looking for him at this point, but we run out of Angostura bitters and I have to go borrow some from the competition.

He steps out of the shadows.

It takes me a second to notice him emerge from the back of the alley, behind the restaurant.

“Hey!”

I try to keep my tone casual, like I’m just pleased to see him. His head turns. I think I see him frown—is he surprised to see me here? Right outside my own restaurant?—but his face relaxes as he steps in my direction. Tall and beautiful and quiet, one thumb tucked under the strap of his duffel bag.

“Hey,” he says back. “Sorry, I was just trying to take a shortcut to…”

He gestures toward Main Street.

“Don’t worry about it,” I tell him. “The one thing I’m not okay with is when kids get high behind the dumpster. So as long as you weren’t doing that, well, we’re fine.”

He laughs. This is me: A pop of color in his life, a touch of absurdity to liven things up. A pretty thing he can pick up when he wants to and leave when he’s done with it.

It’s not enough, and it’s not okay, but—and it kills me, it kills me to think that, but I do think it—I’ll take it any day over nothing.

Aidan slips his duffel off his shoulder and drops it at his feet. With both hands free, he crosses his arms over his chest, eyes me up and down.

“No coat?”

I stare at my white button-down, black slacks, crimson apron. “I’m not going far.”

I wasn’t cold until he said anything, but now all I can think about is the December wind on my skin, so chilly it almost burns.

“Hold on.”

He unties his thick wool scarf and gives me a look, a silent request for permission to approach. When I don’t say anything, he steps closer and wraps it around my neck.

“There,” he says.

I smell pine needles. I smell bay leaves.

“Better?”

I blink myself back to earth.

“Yes,” I tell him. “Thank you. I…”

What did I want to discuss again?

Oh. Right. The woman in his house.

Before I can find the right words, he interjects, “So how have you been?”

It’s like dancing with someone who’s always half a step ahead. I tell him I’ve been fine.

“Just working. The usual.”

He nods.

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