“Brandon, do you have any idea who Theodore Blackwood is?”
“Do you know what this means?”
But I didn’t look back.
For the first time in three years, I was walking towards something instead of away from it.
The restaurant Theo chose was the kind of place I’d only read about in magazines.
Floor to ceiling windows overlooked the Denver skyline.
Soft jazz played in the background, and the weight staff moved with the quiet efficiency of people who understood that discretion was more valuable than visibility.
“I probably should have asked,” Theo said as we were seated at a corner table with a view of the mountains. “Are you hungry?”
“I realized we both missed the wedding dinner.”
I laughed, surprising myself with how genuine it sounded.
“I don’t think I could have eaten another bite of pretentious canopes anyway.”
“Though I have to admit, I’m curious what a $500 a plate dinner tastes like.”
“Disappointing,” he said dryly.
“Very expensive disappointment.”
The waiter appeared as if summoned by telepathy.
“Mr. Blackwood, your usual table.”
“Shall I bring the wine list, please?”
“And could we have some of those stuffed mushrooms Ellaner likes?”
He caught my expression and smiled.
“I remember you ordered them at Romanos that night when we celebrated your acceptance to the teacher training program.”
The memory hit me like a physical blow.
Romanos, the little Italian place that had been our special restaurant.
I’d been 20 years old.
He’d been 22.
And we’d been so desperately in love that we could barely sit across from each other without reaching for hands.
“You remember what I ordered 50 years ago?”
“I remember everything about you,” he said simply.
“The way you laughed at your own jokes.”
“How you got that little wrinkle between your eyebrows when you were concentrating.”
“The fact that you always stole the olives from my salad because you were too polite to order extra for yourself.”
Tears pricricked at my eyes.
When had anyone last paid attention to me that way?
Robert had loved me.
I knew that.
But his love had been comfortable, practical.
He’d loved me the way you love a well- functioning appliance, with gratitude, but without wonder.
“Tell me about your life,” Theo said after the wine arrived.
“Not the headlines I could find in newspaper archives.”
“Tell me about the parts that mattered to you.”
So I did.
I told him about my teaching career, about the students who’d kept me sane during the difficult years with Robert’s illness.
I told him about Brandon’s childhood, about the pride I’d felt watching him graduate law school and pass the bar exam.
Leave a Comment