Chapter 23: A Table With a Tablecloth

"Dinner," Nate said in the corridor, with his hand over mine on his chest. "Tonight. A table with a tablecloth."

"Yes."

"And then I'd like to ask you something else."

"I know what you'll ask," I said. "Ask it after the soup."

His sister took Charlie home with her that evening, with a bag of bottles and four pages of instructions.

She also took one look at my face and told me not to call before nine.

The restaurant was a small Italian place in Arvada with candles in jars.

I ate the soup and half a plate of pasta and a dessert I didn't taste.

Nate talked about his niece, and a hotel in Vail he had once managed in a blizzard, and I laughed at the right places.

Under the tablecloth, his knee had been against mine since the bread.

By the time the check came, neither of us had said a word for a full minute.

"Ask me," I said.

"Come upstairs with me."

"Where?"

"My apartment. Not the hotel."

"The one you don't like very much?"

"It's improved."

His place was on the third floor of a brick building near the old town square, with bare walls and a couch and a great many books in boxes.

He shut the door behind us and stood with his back against it.

He did not touch me.

"I have to say something stupid first," he said.

"Please."

"I've wanted you since the night I held your son for two hours so you could sleep. I looked up and thought, I'm a lost man."

"You were asleep."

"I had help."

I walked over and took hold of his tie.