Page 73 of Wait for Him

That's what I come here to see.

He's a happy young man, and I make myself hold onto that because it matters more than every ugly thing that came before him.

Across the room, Samson spots me and gives me the same soft nod he always does, one hand pressing briefly over his heart. Our entire conversation for the night happens in that gesture.

I see you.

Thank you.

He's okay.

We've never needed words for it.

The live music starts once the band gets settled onstage, a jazz group tonight with a vocalist whose voice raises goosebumps along both my arms. I'm grateful for the distraction and let myself watch them while James and Samson disappear into the kitchen together.

Which is why I don't notice someone approaching my table until he's already speaking.

“...one for you.”

I startle hard enough that my hand flies to my chest, and when I look up, James is standing beside my table.

Close.

Closer than I've ever been to him.

He's holding a stack of cards in one hand and several daubers in the other, looking mildly alarmed by my reaction.

“Sorry.” He laughs, easy and embarrassed. “I didn't mean to scare you. I'm making my way around passing these out.”

I can't breathe.

He sets a bingo card and a dauber in front of me. “It's a joke for when Dad gives his speech later. Bingo for all the stuff he always says. Winners get a free dinner pass.” He flashes a wide, blinding grin. “It was my idea.”

My heart is beating so hard I can feel it in my throat.

I should say something. I've spoken in front of boards, judges, investors, and rooms full of men who thought they were smarter than me until I corrected them, and now a fourteen-year-old with a bingo card has wiped out my entire vocabulary.

“That's clever,” I manage.

Excellent work, Rosalie.

James doesn't seem to notice my temporary intellectual collapse. He starts pointing out some of the squares, explaining which ones are practically guaranteed because Samson says the same things every year. Family. Community. Hard work. When I first opened this place is such a certainty that several staff members have already accused him of rigging the game.

I barely hear him.

I'm looking at his face.

For years, I was afraid of this moment. Not of James himself. Never him. I was afraid of being close enough to see.

I had built the fear into something enormous in my head, convinced that if I ever stood near him I would look into his face and find the man who hurt me. A jawline. A mouth. Something in the eyes. Some feature I couldn't unsee once I found it.

I was terrified the worst night of my life would be sitting there in the face of an innocent child who had absolutely nothing to do with it.

So I kept my distance.

Photographs were safe. Social media was safe. Watching him from across rooms like this one was safe.

I could leave before my mind did something cruel.