Page 134 of Damaged

I manage to smile at the absurdity of this. “I did, too.”

It makes sense, when I think about it. If we wanted to avoid each other, we’d go to Brooklyn. And this place is one of the closest bars right when you get off the bridge.

“So, we both had the same idea,” James says.

“I guess so.” I don’t know what else to say. “Thanks for the money, by the way. I just got that.” My gratitude comes out awkwardly.

He raises his whiskey glass up in an unenthusiastic cheers and then drains the glass. “It’s nothing. You did a good job. And you didn’t rat me out to the police, so there’s that, too.”

“I didn’t realize that was an option.”

He smirks, but there’s an annoyance in it, like he doesn’t want me getting cute. I don’t blame him. “I saw you put in your resignation to the gallery.”

“I got a new job.”

“Congratulations. Where at?”

“Um. It’s kind of a travel job. I’m joining one of Claude Bernard’s treasure hunts.”

“What? You’re going on a boat?”

“An expedition. Yeah.”

“Bartender,” James says in his deep voice and taps his finger next to his empty glass twice. The beer-bellied barman comes over at lightspeed and pours James a double of Johnny Walker. He must tip well here.

“Anything for you?” the bartender asks when he’s done.

“Oh, not yet.”

He walks on.

“James, I should get back to my table.”

He takes a sip of his new drink and looks towards the way I’d come. “You’re on a date, aren’t you?”

I don’t respond for a moment. “Yeah,” I say in almost a whisper. “I should…” I point to the bathroom.

His gaze is distant. A million miles away. Finally, he speaks. “I need to send you something before you go to sea, sailor.”

“Oh?” I say with a little interest.

“It’s taxes.”

“Oh,” I say again, with displeasure this time.

“Text me where your ship gets its mail.”

“It’s somewhere in Nassau.”

“Alright. Thank you, Sophia.”

I nod awkwardly, like this man hasn’t explored every inch of my body with his tongue, and dart ahead to the bathroom.

Funny how quickly we can become strangers.

No, not funny. Devastating.

I’m cringing on the toilet. I need to tell him that I’m sorry for how cold I was in Quebec. That I didn’t feel like I could do it any other way. I finish and wash my hands, impatient to get back out, but when I do, James’s barstool is empty.

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