I glance around the restaurant and to my horror, I hear myself blurt out, “You know, I think this may be the first time I’ve been to a restaurant with another adult since my wife—” I stop myself mid-sentence.

It’s like a lead ball just crashed onto the table in the middle of the conversation.

“I’m sorry,” I say, shaking my head. “I was thinking out loud.”

“Nothing to be sorry about,” she says, reassuringly. “Again, I can’t imagine what you and Caitlyn have been through. To lose someone you love like that; it’s not fair.”

There it is, again, like before in her classroom. Her answer is perfect, as though she truly understands.

“No, it’s not,” I reply.

There’s a silence that’s not uncomfortable. Then, she seamlessly shifts gears.

“So, In the Shadows of Justice …”

“Yeah …?”

“I have a question.”

“Fire away.”

She takes the bottle of wine and refills our glasses. “You know about your little plot hole, right?”

I cast my eyes to the ceiling. “The guy’s car?”

“The guy’s car! How did he get back to the car? He left it at the house!”

She’s right about the plot hole. It’s something my editor and I missed, but the internet definitely did not. However, that’s not what I’m thinking about. It’s her handling of Nicole. She handled it in a way that only someone who had experienced a similar tragedy would. There’s something there in her past. I know it.

For the moment, I file it away, and we delve into the details of In the Shadows of Justice.

*

We spend the main course breaking down the novel, discussing character arcs and fun stuff like who we would cast in the main roles, should the big-screen adaptation ever come to fruition. Denise knows her stuff and could absolutely be an author. We order another bottle of wine and take our time.

After the main course, the waiter clears our plates and asks us if we’d like any dessert.

I’m all in, but Denise gives me a pleading look.

“I’m worried that this is getting a little expensive.”

I lean in over the table. “If you don’t let us get tiramisu, I’m never speaking to you, again.”

Without missing a beat, she throws her hands up in feigned disgust. “Fine.” She looks at the waiter. “He’s such a jerk.”

“Yes, ma’am,” the waiter says and walks away.

“And two espressos, please,” she calls after him.

The tiramisu arrives in dainty teacups and perfectly pairs with the espressos.

We’ve been talking for hours about anything and everything. We’re clicking on every cylinder.

Finally, it reaches the point where we’re the last two diners in the restaurant, and the chairs are being placed on the tables.

Our poor waiter has had enough, and respectfully drops the check.