In Her Defense

by Julianna Keyes

  I step out of the building at exactly 7:45, and look around for Eli’s truck, nearly missing him standing right in front of me next to an idling cab. He whistles appreciatively, then kisses my cheek and runs his fingers down the exposed length of my back when I approach. “You take ‘dress up’ seriously,” he comments, stepping away to look me up and down. Twice.

  For a second I’m too stunned to speak, eventually managing a genuine, “So do you.” Gone are the khakis and the day-old stubble. There’s no more paint under his nails, and he doesn’t smell like drywall dust or sex. If I hadn’t been expecting him, I never would have recognized the man in the custom-made suit, designer loafers and expensive cologne—Tom Ford, maybe?—clean shaven and dressed to kill. “Who are you?” I murmur, sliding into the backseat.

  He just winks in response, and the driver pulls away from the curb, presumably having already been given the address. Eli still refuses to tell me where we’re going, and I refuse to admit that I’m more thrilled than annoyed by the secrecy.

  I’m rendered speechless a second time when we pull up in front of Mache 42, the hottest restaurant in the city. Eli helps me out of the car, adjusting his jacket as he walks to the restaurant and holds the door for me to pass through, which I do a bit reluctantly. I can just picture Eli sitting at his computer, searching for popular Chicago restaurants, then blithely spending his entire paycheck on a new suit, thinking this is what’s required to impress me. Why did he have to see that stupid email with its professors, politicians and athletes? Now he’s going to feel like he has to measure up, spending beyond his means, trying too hard.

  I think back to his truck after the ball game, when he asked me to come home with him. His half-earnest, half-defensive insistence that he wasn’t like River or Haines and didn’t want to be. But now here we are, nary a hot dog in sight. He’s trying to please me, and it breaks my heart a little bit. Because I’ve never been with someone who hadn’t already decided exactly who he was, take it or leave it. I’ve never been with someone so willing to try, and I can’t help but fear that he’s getting in too deep when I’m leaving at the end of the summer. And more terrifying yet is the knowledge that every time he tries he pulls me in just a little bit more, and I’m already in deeper than I’ve ever been. Because like it or not, I’m trying, too, growing intensely, alarmingly fond of a man I haven’t known long enough and won’t know long enough. But instead of running away as fast as I can, I stay exactly where I am.

  Everyone knows that Mache 42 has a three-month waiting list, and I smile tightly when Eli approaches the stiff maître d’. “Grant,” he says. “For two.”

  “Right this way, sir.”

  For a second I don’t move, hearing the words I’d expected: “I’m sorry, sir, did you have a reservation? No? Then perhaps you could come back in October.”

  “Caitlin?” Eli prompts. “You coming?”

  I follow hesitantly, feeling his hand on the small of my back, guiding me through the crowded room, every table occupied. How the hell did he swing this? Who do they think he is?

  The interior design melds rustic and traditional fine dining, with exposed brick walls and wooden chandeliers blending seamlessly with white cloth-covered tables and servers in classic long aprons. Mache 42 grows their produce in a rooftop garden, and boasts the freshest and most innovative menu in the city. River Smith had actually invited me to the grand opening earlier this year, but I was too busy to come, and they’d been booked solid ever since.

  “How did you manage this?” I whisper once we’re seated.

  Eli opens his mouth to reply, but shuts it when a server materializes with a bottle of wine so expensive I recognize it from pictures only. Without saying a word he pours a sample. Eli swirls the liquid in the glass, sniffs it, sips thoughtfully, then nods. The server fills both our glasses then glides away.

  “What the fuck?” I say, this new shock erasing my earlier shock.

  Eli looks at me. “What’s the problem?”

  “What’s going on?”

  “Don’t get mad I ordered wine, please. You can choose your own food.”

  “Oh.” I snort. “Thank you.”

  He smiles but doesn’t appear to be preparing to offer any sort of explanation, and I’m ready to demand answers when the server reappears with two vegan leather-bound menus, recites the night’s only special, and leaves again.

  “Eli,” I say when he opens the menu and studiously begins to read it. “How did you get reservations here?”

  “You don’t like it?”

  “I—” I cut myself off as I belatedly realize that whatever it was he did to make this night happen, it couldn’t have been easy, and is eminently thoughtful. “Thank you for bringing me here.” But I still want answers.

  “Ah.” He lifts his glass and touches it to mine as though I’ve made an important discovery: my manners. “You’re welcome.”

  I blush a little, embarrassed. I’m the one who grew up coming to places like this, but right now I feel completely out of sorts. “Please tell me how you arranged this.”

  “Same as anyone,” he replies, with a casual shrug. “I made a reservation.”

  “Three months ago?”

  “No.”

  “When?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Do you know the chef?”

  “No.”

  “What’s the deal with the wine?”

  “Maybe you should have some and relax,” he suggests, his voice taking on a slightly less easygoing note.

  I drag in a breath through my nose, feel no more relaxed than I did five seconds ago and tell myself to calm down. He brought me to a fabulous restaurant, not an abandoned cabin in the woods.

  I open the menu and scan the options, mouth watering. I’d stopped for a crepe while shopping, but otherwise haven’t eaten all day. Still, I can’t help but note the extravagant prices. Eli will insist on footing the bill, and I can’t imagine he makes a ton of money working in IT. Plus he told me he spent a lot on the renovation, and obviously won’t see a return on his investment until he sells the place. Money’s probably tight and I don’t want to make matters worse. Maybe they have free bread.

  “I think I’ll have the tomato bisque,” I say, closing the menu, shutting down dreams of duck confit, beef short ribs and something called lobster pie.

  Eli’s still reading. “What else?”

  “That’s it.” I study the room when he stares at me.

  “That’s it?” he echoes.

  “I love tomato bisque.”

  “And that’s all you want?”

  “Mmm-hmm.” My stomach lurches unhappily at the lie, but at least it doesn’t growl and give me away.

  Eli sets the menu on the table and leans in. “I don’t believe you.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You’re lying.”

  I stare back for a second, torn between not wanting to lie, but really not wanting to tell the truth: I don’t think you can afford the entrées. But what I say is, “Why did you choose this place?”

  “Because I heard it was the best.” The server chooses that unfortunate moment to return, and Eli sends him away with a brusque, “Another minute, please.” He disappears again and I rack my brain for a way to tactfully relay my concern. “What’s the real issue, Caitlin? You don’t like the food? We can go somewhere else.”

  I cringe inwardly, knowing how much effort he must have gone to. The perfectly tailored suit, the cologne. And now I’m ruining it. “I’m sorry,” I say cautiously, tracing a nail over the pristine white tablecloth. “I can’t help but think...it’s a lot.”

  His brows pull together. “A lot of what?”

  I sigh and reluctantly utter words I know will embarrass him. “Of money.”

  His mouth opens a little, and
his expression can only be described as dumbfounded. For a long, painful moment he just stares at me like that, then he leans back in his seat and runs a hand over his face, obviously composing himself.

  “Sorry,” I add belatedly.

  He shakes his head, like one might when they ask a child with chocolate smeared around their mouth if they’d stolen a cupcake and they deny it. “Money’s not an issue,” he says.

  My heart skips a little then, at the effort he’s making. And for what? A bit of manual labor? Sure, I’d complained when I accidentally sanded my knuckle, and again when I’d gotten not one, but four splinters in my hand, but it hadn’t been worth all this. I’d have been perfectly happy with a burrito.

  “Caitlin.” He interrupts my critical self-examination with a firm rap on the table. “I’m not kidding. Don’t worry about money. Order some fucking food. Please.”

  Well. Now we’ve reached the point where I’m damned if I do, damned if I don’t. How long can a couple argue over a check, right? My magnanimous gesture will only be interpreted as bitchy if I continue to push. “All right.” I reluctantly open the menu and identify the cheapest item, which is still three times the price it would be at any other restaurant. “The stuffed chicken.”

  “The stuffed—” Eli snatches away my menu. “You don’t come here for stuffed chicken.”

  “It’s on the menu.”

  “I lied earlier,” he says firmly, waving the server back. “You can’t order your own food.”

  I listen in disbelief as he orders two appetizers—no bisque—as well as short ribs and the intriguing lobster pie. “I cannot believe you just did that,” I hiss when we’re alone.

  “Deal with it,” he suggests, a stubborn glint in his eye.

  Then, just when I think things can’t get worse, I spot a figure winding its way through the tables, his nest of frazzled hair making him impossible to miss. Crap crap crap crap crap. What is Joseph Morgan doing here, of all places? Wouldn’t he be more at home enjoying the early bird special at the bingo hall? And what am I going to say—

  “Caitlin.” Morgan beams as he approaches. I stand and he air-kisses both my cheeks, something we would never do at the office. Or anywhere else.

  “How are you, sir?”

  “Just fine, just fine. Look at you. Two days’ vacation and you’re looking better than ever. A bit of sleep and some good food can work wonders.”

  Ugh. I force a smile and prepare to introduce him to Eli, who’s already standing, but Morgan beats me to it. “Elijah!” he exclaims, folding Eli in a bear hug. Or as much of a bear hug as he can manage, given he’s a foot shorter. To my consternation, Eli doesn’t look confused or uncomfortable, and returns the embrace, smiling when he pulls back.

  “How are you, Joe? I haven’t seen you around lately.”

  “Nature of the beast, I’m afraid. I put you in the same building, yet somehow see you even less. How’s the house on Larch? The one with the stained glass?”

  “Sold it. I’m working over on Baylor now.”

  “That the three-unit one?”

  “It is.”

  “Ah.” Morgan claps him on the arm. “Good taste. You take after your father.”

  “Thank you. I think.” They laugh and I try to keep my expression neutral as it all starts to sink in. I’ve been so self-absorbed that I’ve completely failed to see who Eli really is. Eli Grant. Of Grant Properties, real estate investors responsible for at least 10 percent of the city’s developments, old and new. Eli Grant, best friend of Joseph Morgan, apparently.

  “Well,” Morgan says. “I won’t keep you. I see you’re in fine company.” Eli shoots me a deliberately doubtful glance and Morgan laughs. We say our goodbyes and sit back down, staring at each other without speaking for a full minute.

  I cave first. “I don’t know anything about you.”

  “You never asked.”

  “Don’t give me that shit. You should have told me.”

  “Fine. Ask whatever you want.” And finally I see him for who he truly is. Not just the oddly composed slacker who works nine to six and coaches softball on Wednesdays. Not just the guy who drinks beer and makes breakfast and insists on switching seats with me in the fourth inning “for luck.” Not just a guy who grew up in a family at least as well-to-do as mine but doesn’t bother to flaunt it. He’s not just any one thing. He can’t be summed up in a stupid slideshow or a single trite word; he’s not a professor, politician or partner. He’s a real person, and if I stopped assuming I knew who he was, he’d show me, because he’s not hiding anything. He just is.

  And I already liked him. I liked him for standing up to me, for putting my wet clothes in the dryer, for smoothing on a bandage with painstaking care when I sanded my own hand. I like him because he likes me, when so few people do.

  I think about him telling me so in the stairwell on Thursday, trying to make sense of what we were doing when it was never going to add up. And then something he said that has niggled at me ever since comes back: “You’re the first person in a long time who makes me forget I’m trying to be good.”

  “No questions?” Eli says, when the silence stretches on. “Perfect.”

  “Why are you trying to be good?”

  He freezes, wineglass halfway to his mouth. I see the wheels turning in his handsome head, trying to decide whether or not to pretend to misunderstand. But ultimately he settles on the truth. “Because my dad said I had to.”

  “And you weren’t good? Before?”

  A nod. “That’s right.”

  “How...bad...were you?”

  He laughs, ducking his head like he’s embarrassed. “Not that bad. Just not that good, either. Not good enough for the Grant family.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I got arrested. Twice. That was the worst of it.”

  I give up keeping track of how many surprises this night brings. I like Eli, but I have really got to start getting to know the men I sleep with. This is too much, too late. “For what?”

  He flicks up fingers. “Assault. Drunk and disorderly.”

  “Assault?”

  “It was trumped up. I got in a fight in a bar with this guy I grew up with. He lost and tried to make it into something it wasn’t.”

  “A fight in a bar and a drunk and disorderly. Do you have a drinking problem?”

  “What do you think?”

  “I think it’s about time you answered one of my questions.”

  He tries to stare me down, but I’m not having it. His secrets may not be of the body in the basement variety, but they’re not okay, either. I’ve been honest. I’ve been accepting. Look where that’s gotten me.

  Well. I glance around. Mache 42 isn’t the worst place to end up.

  Eli sighs. “I don’t want to fight, Caitlin. I wanted to do something nice for you, since you helped me all weekend. I wanted to do more than drag you to ball games and bang you in the stairwell. I don’t have a drinking problem. My family’s loaded. You know everything else, okay?”

  I ignore his well-practiced—and very effective—puppy-dog stare. “Do you have a criminal record?”

  He rolls his eyes. “No. My dad...” He waves a hand. Enough said.

  “How long have you worked at the firm?”

  “Six years.”

  “What did you do before then?”

  “I went to school.”

  “Where?”

  “Dartmouth. Look, after high school I spent about five years tooling around, wasting time. Sleeping around, disappearing. Getting drunk, getting high, doing odd jobs. Nothing illegal, but not exactly aboveboard.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like computer stuff, Caitlin. It was a long time ago. The two arrests were a couple months apart, my dad stepped in and told me to grow up o
r get lost, so I grew up. End of story.”

  The server comes with the appetizers—scallops for me, risotto for Eli—and tops up the wine when Eli nods his okay.

  “Have you been here before?”

  “No. First time. We own the building. Are you okay with scallops, or do you want to switch?”

  “Oh, I get a choice in the matter?”

  Eli folds his napkin over his lap and looks at me beseechingly. “Are we really fighting about this? The fact that I can afford a nice restaurant?”

  “We’re fighting over the fact that you kept the fact you could afford a nice restaurant a secret,” I correct. “But I’m hungry, so the fight is on hold.”

  “Thank Christ.”

  I take a bite of scallop and my eyes roll back in my head a bit. I wash it down with a sip of wine, and I’ll be damned if the pairing isn’t perfect.

  * * *

  We make it through the rest of dinner without bickering, and as we step outside into the newly dark night Eli suggests going for a walk. I suppress a grimace at the thought of strolling around in my new four-inch heels, but, in the interest of not disagreeing with everything he says, tell him that sounds nice.

  And it does. In theory. Or in sneakers. The night is warm but not too warm, with a faint breeze to lift my hair off my neck. Mache 42 is tucked in at the corner of a popular pedestrian neighborhood, with small shops and vendors, trees twined with fairy lights, streets still humming with cars and foot traffic.

  “Hang on,” Eli says a few minutes in. “Wait here.”

  “What for?”

  “Just sit down.” He nudges me toward an empty bench and I take his advice and sit, flexing my toes as best I can. He disappears into a shop selling Chicago souvenirs, the front window full of the predictable baseball paraphernalia, Sears Tower key chains and postcards. I expect him to return with some sort of White Sox merchandise, but he surprises me when he comes back with a pair of flip-flops, Chicago! scrawled across the soles in gaudy purple font. They’re the most beautiful shoes I’ve ever seen.

  “Hmm?” Eli murmurs as he crouches in front of me, deftly unbuckles heels that cost at least one hundred times more than my newest footwear, and dramatically yanks the flip-flops apart, plastic thread flying over his shoulder. He digs his thumb into my arches, making me groan, then shoots me a dirty look before sliding on the flip-flops. I’m sure I look ridiculous in a thousand-dollar dress and eight-dollar shoes, but it’s the most comfortable I’ve been in hours.