Date Night

Bistro 18 was new, and it had received a five-star review in the Wahredua Courier (not that Emery put much stock in the opinions of Curtis Platt, who had once waxed poetic about the Ruby Tuesday's salad bar), and, even though it had been John's pick, it appeared to be reasonably priced. Shockingly so, in fact. To the point that Emery wondered if John had meant to choose another restaurant for date night. It was located on Market Street, in an old brick building with a new (but faux-vintage) wood fa?ade. Wrought-iron tables with checkered tablecloths waited along the sidewalk, and the restaurant's large windows had gilt lettering designed to look like it was tarnished and flaking away. Inside, from what Emery could see as they approached, they had continued the aesthetic, with dark wood and pseudo-antique mirrors—what some dark-haired man with excellent cheekbones would describe, on HGTV, as timeless .

When Emery held the door for John, John froze. Then he stepped back, took Emery's arm, and started walking the way they'd come.

"Never mind," he said with a laugh. "I guess we're going to St. Taffy's."

"I knew it," Emery said. "I knew there was no way you wanted to go there, not when the Caesar salad was only fifteen dollars—"

He managed to cut off the rest of that sentence.

John let it go, thankfully. But his voice was dry when he said, "No, that's the right place. But I don't want to crash Cora's date."

Emery stopped walking. "What?"

John stopped too, confusion lining his face.

"Cora's on a date?" Emery asked.

"That's what it looked like—"

"What's his name?"

"I don't know."

"You don't know?" Emery could feel his jaw slacken. "If you don't know his name, how did you approve?"

"I didn't approve. I don't have to approve. She's an adult. She's single. She's not my property." John peered at him. "Do I need to keep going?"

Emery stared back at the man he loved most in the world—the man, he felt now, he didn't know at all. "But surely you ran a background check—" He came up dry. "John, my God, how can you not know his name?"

"Because she didn't tell me. Ree, I didn't even know she was on a date; it's not like she tells me. I—where are you going?"

Emery didn't bother looking back; he kept himself to a brisk walk—barely—grateful for long legs that ate up the sidewalk quickly. It was a mild spring day, but sweat was building on the back of his neck.

At the window, the glare forced him to press his face against the glass. It only took him a moment to locate Cora—in a sleeveless crew neck tank and wide-leg pants, smiling across the table at a man. White, Hazard thought. Mid-forties. Dark hair with silver at the temples. A hint of stubble. A long-sleeved olive-colored shirt over a Henley. For God's sake, was he on a date or was he an escapee from a hipster commune?

That was when a strong hand pulled Emery away from the window. John was careful to keep himself pressed up against the wall, where he couldn't be seen through the window. His eyebrows had a familiar slant to them. "What do you think you're doing?" he asked in a low voice.

"Making sure he's not a serial killer or a bigamist or—or in a gang."

John was still holding his arm—and managing to keep Emery from his job—but with his free hand, he dry-washed his face. Then he said, "Ree, I'll admit that there is something endearing about how…concerned you are about other people's dating lives, like with Nico and Colt—"

"Colt's dating?"

It came out louder than Emery had intended. It also happened at a less than ideal time—a snooty-looking waiter chose that moment to step out of the bistro, carrying a tray of place settings, and he paused to give them a dirty look. Emery returned the look, and after a moment, the waiter sniffed and began setting the tables.

"He's dating Ashley, dummy," John said in a whisper. "But—"

"Thank God. I thought you meant he was looking for a new boyfriend, and I do not have the bandwidth for that right now. Or, for that matter, the binder space."

For some reason, that made John stop and take another deep breath. "But," he said again—with a hint of a tone—"in this case, Cora is a responsible, functioning adult who does not need you evaluating her romantic partners. And since apparently I need to remind you, I'm her ex-husband, and even though we're on good terms and I love her and I want the best for her, this puts me in a tricky position."

That made sense, Emery decided. He took out his wallet, found a twenty, and gave it to John. "You're right. Go get yourself a salad."

"What," John repeated in a tight voice, "do you think you're doing?"

"John, if it costs more than twenty dollars, you need to go somewhere else—"

"Emery Hazard." He took another deep breath. "What is going on? You know Cora has dated before. She was dating Ethan when you and I got together."

"That was before I was invested. And since then, we've only learned about her romantic escapades—"

"God, please don't call them escapades."

"—after it was too late for me to do anything. Now go away and let me work."

"Absolutely not," John said.

But Emery barely heard him. He was considering the bistro, trying to visualize the most likely floor plan.

"What are you doing?" John asked.

On someone else, Emery might have described the voice as tinged with hysteria. "Deciding where I'll best be able to see and hear their conversation."

John's laugh had a jagged little edge. "Let me guess: you're going to dress up as Chef Boyardee."

"Don't be ridiculous, John. In the first place, Ettore Boiardi was a real person, and I have to imagine that Cora, as an educated person, would know that. In the second, even with the mustache, I think the odds are good she would recognize me."

Silence. And then, with a creeping note of despair, "What is happening?"

After that, Emery got about five seconds of peace and quiet. He was fairly sure that this building's layout would be similar to the one that housed the Astraea office, which meant—

"Oh my God, Ree," John said. "Look at the font change on this menu."

Emery glanced over automatically. And then his brain caught up with him. He leveled a look at his husband. And then he snatched the menu out of his hand and said, "Really, John?"

"It almost worked."

"Excuse me." That came from the snooty waiter, who had stopped even pretending to bustle around and was now simply staring at them. "What are you two doing? If you aren't going to get a table, then you need to leave, or—"

"Or what?" Emery asked.

The waiter stopped. He swallowed. Then, valiantly, he tried, "Or I'll get my manager."

"Get him," Emery said. "These rollups are abysmal—it's like you've never rolled a napkin in your life. That's not to mention the state of the table linens, or the fact that the fonts on this menu are all over the place. And for God's sake, stand up straight."

The waiter straightened. He was staring at Emery, lips parted, as though he were trying to say something but had forgotten how.

"Redo them," Emery barked.

The man sprang into action, unwrapping the nearest napkin and rolling it again around the silverware—more tightly this time, Emery noticed approvingly.

"And find a steamer. If I wanted table linens that looked like they'd been fished up from the Titanic , I'd go to Arby's."

"I—I don't know—" the waiter tried.

"That's why I said find one!"

The waiter beat a retreat inside the bistro.

John said, "‘That looked like they'd been fished up from the Titanic' ?"

"I was making a point."

"And they don't have table linens at Arby's."

"They should." Emery was about to explain why, but at that moment, he brought his gaze back to the window in time to see the man touch Cora's hand.

"Oh," he said, "no fucking way."

But John caught before he reached the door and, with surprising strength, hauled him away from the bistro. They made it half a block before John released him and said, "What in the world is going on with you?"

Emery opened his mouth.

"The truth, Ree," John said. "Right now."

It was strange how, after everything they had been through, it was still so hard to say.

"I know," Emery said, laying weight on the verb, "that you love me. And I know that you are my husband and my partner, and that you chose this life."

"Ree—"

"But I am also aware of the fact that you care deeply about Cora. And—" He had to rush through the rest of it because otherwise, he wasn't sure he'd be able to put it into words. "—you love her. And I do not want to see you get hurt because she gets hurt." Then, forcing his voice to brusqueness, he added, "And I have a vested interest in making sure Evie's potential stepfather is not a reprobate."

For a quiet moment, John only watched him. The sound of the river filled the background, and the hum of tires, the bell jangling on the door of a shop. Then John reached out to brush Emery's hair, and he said, "Sweetheart."

Emery had to cut his eyes away.

But John waited. And when Emery finally looked at him, John said, "I love you so much."

"I know."

"And you are the person I want to spend my life with."

"That's why you married me."

"Yes, dummy. That's why I married you." John was quiet for a moment. "And yes, I care about Cora. I do love her. As a friend, and as a co-parent, and as someone who is important to me. When she started dating again, it was a shock. And I won't lie —there were times that it hurt. Mostly, because it reminded me that there had been good times between us, and they were gone now. But I stopped feeling that way a long time ago because I never imagined I'd be this happy. So, I want her to date. I want her to be happy too." He smiled, and it was that wonderful John-Henry Somerset smile. "I am one hundred percent fine with this, promise."

After a moment, Emery nodded.

"Thank you for worrying about me," John said softly.

Emery nodded again.

John kissed him, and whatever else Emery had been thinking, he forgot about it.

"She looked happy, didn't she?" John asked, and he took Emery's hand and started them walking again—away from the bistro, Emery noticed.

"She did."

"Good. I hope it works out."

They made it another block before Emery said, "You realize with two of us, you could distract him while I got his wallet? I'd also like to get the plates for his car, and I think if I yell long enough, that waiter will give us his wineglass so we can lift his prints."

"I know, love," John said, patting his hand. "Let's go home."