Page 44 of His Wall

He was taller than I had let myself remember. He was in a charcoal button-down with the top button open and dark trousers. The dark hair was shorter than it had been at the Mayflower. There was new gray at his temples I had not seen before, and the line of his jaw had filled out.

He looked good.

He looked like the kind of man you grew older with.

He hugged me.

His arms came around my shoulders. My arms went around his back. Through the cotton of his shirt, my left hand came up against the long ridge of the scar, where it started at the top of his back, under his shoulder blade, and ran down across the line of his spine toward his hip.

I had put it there.

I held him for a second longer than I had planned to.

I let go. I sat. He sat across from me. The waiter came. Torres ordered the carbonara, that was his favorite Italian meal. I ordered the cacio e pepe because I did not have the energy to read the menu. The waiter went away. Torres poured wine for both of us. His left arm moved a little stiff when he tilted the bottle. I noticed it at the Mayflower last year. I watched that arm in the parking garage too, before, when he was reaching for the keys to the unmarked.

"You look tired, Cal."

"You said that on Wednesday."

"It's still true."

"Don't call me Cal."

"Sorry."

He set the bottle down. He picked up his glass. He looked at me across the rim.

"How are you, Leah?"

"I'm fine."

"You always say that."

"Because it's always true."

"It's never true. That's why you always say it."

I did not answer. I picked up the bread. I tore a piece off it and put it on my plate and did not eat it.

He let it sit. He drank his wine. He set the glass down.

"You shouldn't be here, Rafael."

"I know.”

"You shouldn't have been on that sidewalk Wednesday and you shouldn't be here tonight. You know what I am doing."

"I know what you're doing."

"You know what showing up at my embed site looks like."

"I know what it looks like."

"I could file."

"You could file."

"I should."