Just One Night, Part 2_ Exposed(36)

“What are you talking about?” he snaps. “Have you lost it? Is this a game to you?”

“No, it’s a war. I recognize the carnage.”

“I’m going to tell Dylan.”

I smile. In the end he’s a child running to his elders to tattle. I glance toward the host stand . . . and there he is. Robert. He’s speaking to the hostess but looking at me.

“I don’t think that would be a good idea,” I say slowly. “Telling, that is.”

“I bet you don’t!” Dave sneers. “You thought you’d just get away . . .” but his voice trails off, because he sees Robert, too, as he walks toward us. It’s impossible to miss him. Robert has that kind of presence. He reaches the table, his eyes glued to Dave.

“So you’re the man who is about to lose,” he says.

I wince at the words. I don’t mind antagonizing Dave, but I take offense at the idea of someone else doing it on my behalf. I hadn’t minded so much last night when Tom took up my case, but that situation had been more urgent. Here in the safety of the restaurant, restraint would be welcome.

Dave opens his mouth to speak, but instead of intelligible speech he releases a series of fragments, “You must be . . . why . . . when did . . .”

Robert watches him with bemused condescension before placing a gentle hand on my shoulder. “I’ll be at the table over there.” He points to an empty table in the center of the room. It’s a spot that will give him a perfect view of the entire restaurant and the restaurant a perfect view of him. “All you have to do is wave,” he says, looking at me before excusing himself with a parting nod.

Dave’s face is the color of a robin’s breast. He fumbles with the fork sitting before him, lightly tapping it against the table as if testing to see how easily it will scratch.

“You brought me here to humiliate me,” he whispers.

“You taught me well.”

His stares sullenly at the table, taps the fork with a little more force. It’s the metronome that sets the aural pulse for our meeting.

“It doesn’t have to be this way,” I say. “We could just stop hurting each other. We could call a truce, rebuild our lives, we could move on.”

“Separately,” he says.

I can’t tell if it’s a question or a statement. Either way, I confirm it with a nod.

“I needed you,” he says. Again his eyes dart around the room, his gaze lightly landing on the woman with the brightly dyed hair before flitting to the man wearing expensive clothes and cheap tattoos, to the woman still laughing by herself to, at last, Robert Dade. “I don’t like this city,” he continues, his voice vibrating with emotion. “It’s tasteless, brazen, it—”

“It scares you,” I finish for him.

“I didn’t say that,” he snaps.

“No, you didn’t, not in so many words. But you told me as much in a thousand little ways.” He glares at me but allows me to continue. “You’re from a world where manners are quieter,” I say. “Where traditionalism still means something and modesty is an attribute, not a hindrance. You came to LA because of a job offer. You came thinking you could handle the glitter of Hollywood, the vivid diversity, the aggressive women, and the preening men, but you can’t handle any of it, can you?”

Dave shifts in his seat; the fork continues its metrical pulse. I lean forward, determined to be heard. “So you tried to control your little corner of the city,” I say. “You did it by joining clubs that disdain those who don’t fit your old school, ivory tower view of the world. You found a house in a neighborhood where the only diversity that can be seen is between the different makes of luxury cars. You’ve kept your home stark to the point of austerity as if to compensate for the wildness of the city and you chose me because I had the right look, the right mannerisms, and the right education . . . and because I let you control me. You told me who you wanted me to be and I poured myself into your mold and held its form for years.”

He looks up at me now; he’s pleading with me without saying a word.

“I can’t do it anymore, Dave. I’ve changed. You can punish me for that if you like, but it won’t do you any good. At best you’ll embarrass yourself; at worst you’ll become a laughingstock. Either way we’ll be over. I am no longer well suited to live within that corner of the world.”

The laughing woman finally hangs up her phone, and just like that, her smile disappears.

“You’re holding on to me out of fear, not love,” I finally add. “But unfortunately this relationship will never make you feel safe again.”