The employee nods and complies. I walk Dave through the Chipotle’s version of a burrito assembly line, instructing them to put in the mild salsa, light on the guacamole, no cheese, no cream. Dave lets me lead him through this foreign ritual without comment, moving like a man who is only partially awake. He doesn’t protest when I pay or lead him back to my table.
We sit across from each other in silence for a full minute.
“You’ve changed,” he finally says.
The observation seems comically ironic. His face seems to have aged ten years in four weeks. I have loved this man and I have hated him but right now the only emotion I can muster is concern . . . and curiosity.
“Did you come here from the office?” I ask. Obviously he didn’t but the question feels like a safe place to start.
He shakes his head, wraps his mouth around the burrito, and chews.
“So you didn’t work today?” I press.
He stares at me, his blue eyes are dulled with exhaustion. “You know the answer to that.”
“How could I possibly—”
“I was fired.”
“Oh Dave, I’m so sor—”
“Spare me! You’re the one who got me fired. You and your new lover.”
The air changes quality; the voices of the patrons around us diminish to an unintelligible hum.
“I didn’t know,” I whisper.
“No one else will hire me. He’s seen to that. I’ve been blackballed.”
“Why are you so sure Robert had anything to do with this?”
His eyes flash with something I’ve seen before.
“You think I got myself fired? You think it’s my fault?”
“Dave—”
Patrons are beginning to look over in our direction. “You think that the moment I lost you I became incompetent?” he shouts. “That I’m unable to live without you even now that I know you’re a whore?”
I sigh audibly, my sympathy sliding to the floor like a forgotten paper napkin. This is the version of Dave I know. This is the man I hated. But I don’t hate him anymore. Now he just bores me.
I stand up, no longer hungry. “Enjoy your dinner,” I say. “Next time your treat.”
He keeps his head bowed; I can’t see his face but I can visualize the scowl. I’ve seen it before, no need to retrace my steps on this muddy road. He mutters something that I think is meant for me but I can’t quite make it out.
“What was that?” I ask impatiently.
He looks up with bloodshot eyes; the scowl I expected isn’t there. What is there is much more disturbing.
“Help me,” he whispers. “Please, Kasie. He’s taken everything.”
I feel a tightening in my chest; slowly I lower myself back to my seat.
“They’re saying I embezzled money. That’s why they made me leave. They accused me of being a thief.”
“You would never—”
“You’re right, I wouldn’t. I wouldn’t risk it. It’s not who I am.”
Somewhere in the restaurant there is a baby crying, screaming the way babies do when they need to communicate their pain without words. “Are they pressing charges?” I ask.
“No, they said if I left voluntarily, they wouldn’t. But they promised me they could prove it, they showed me evidence . . . it’s fake but even to me it looked real. These people, they know me, they trained me, promised me a future. They know I’m being set up . . . and they don’t care. The club I used to belong to? They revoked my membership. They won’t tell me why. These were my friends . . . I thought they were my friends.” He looks down at his hands folded in his lap, the burrito carnitas mangled and unappealing on a paper plate. “Help me,” he whispers again.
I shake my head. I feel dizzy. Robert couldn’t be responsible for this. Would he even have that power?
Of course he did. It’s like Mr. Costin said, Robert sits on the boards of many of the city’s major businesses and is a major stockholder in the rest. He was able to get women from several of the companies that contract with my firm to make false accusations against Tom. Why couldn’t he do the same thing to Dave? It fit the pattern.
And for the first time I realize that this is probably a pattern that started when he saw similar things done to his father.
But would he do it? What would be the point? Even if he didn’t share in my compassion for this man, there are still other things that would stop him, right? After all, Robert knows I don’t want Dave talking to my parents and although Dylan Freeland must know something about what went down by now I really don’t need Dave filling in the details. If Robert had stripped Dave of everything he cared about, it would leave me vulnerable to his attacks . . .