Page 92 of The Quiet Tenant

He laughs with me. For a second, we’re back to being us—two people, two friends. Two souls that have interlocked with each other.

His face falls. He’s serious again. “Did you see anyone inside?”

“I did,” I tell him. “I met your…cousin. She seems great.”

Around us, the streets are empty. It’s too cold for people to linger.

“You met her, huh?” he says. He thinks. “Good.” Clicks his tongue, and again: “Good.”

There’s still a trace of worry on his face, a tension in his upper body.

“Could I ask you,” he starts. “It’s my truck. There’s something—I can’t start it. That’s why I was cutting through here in the first place. I was trying to get help.”

How much does he think I know about trucks?

He must see the confusion on my face, because he adds: “I think it’s the battery. You got cables?”

I do. Borrowed from Eric and never returned.

“Sure,” I tell him.

He says great. He says he saw my car parked on the street and his truck isn’t far.

I say great, too. He picks up the duffel, lifts it back onto his shoulder, and starts toward the sidewalk. I follow him.

We’re about to exit the alley when the back door of the restaurant opens.

Yuwanda leans outside. “Everything okay back here?” She sees Aidan next to me, represses a smile. “Hi there. Sorry.” Then, to me: “Didn’t realize you had company.”

At this, she smiles frankly. A cat that got the cream, a sommelier who just scored some gossip.

“Did you need anything?” I ask.

She shakes her head, leans against the doorframe. “Nope. I just saw you out there and wanted to make sure you were all right.” Her gaze travels to Aidan. “But I see you’re in good hands.”

Before I can widen my eyes at her, she’s gone again. A burst of laughter travels to us as the door slams shut behind her.

I won’t ever be able to look him in the eyes again.

“Sorry about that,” I tell the ground.

“It’s okay.”

But it doesn’t sound okay when he says it. His voice is faint, distant. His eyes are nowhere to be found.

I take a couple more steps in the direction of the street, but he doesn’t move.

“You know what,” he says. “Don’t worry about it. You’re busy.”

Oh, come on.

“I really don’t mind,” I tell him. “I’ll just—”

“It’s fine.”

“But your truck?”

So lame. A plea more than a question.

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