Jennifer McKenzie - Table for Two

“Your money’s no good here,” Owen called after him as he walked toward the exit, but Travis wasn’t listening. He had something more important to do and it didn’t include wallowing.

He’d barely closed the door of the cab behind him before he dialed Mal’s number on his cell. She’d gotten a new number once she’d returned to North America, but Owen had given him both the phone number and her address, with the understanding that Travis would say it had been Donovan who’d spilled the beans. He didn’t expect her to pick up and she didn’t. So he left a voice mail.

“Hey, Mal. It’s me. Travis.” God, he hated saying that. Like he was so far gone from her life that he was no longer known by voice recognition alone. “Listen, we need to talk. I’m on my way to your place. If you’d rather not talk now, call me back.”

He clicked off. He didn’t expect her to call back because he didn’t expect her to listen to the message. Which made it cowardly and a little dastardly to say that she should call back to cancel, but things were nearing a level of desperation.

Hell, who was he kidding? He was already desperate.

Desperate to see her, desperate to talk, desperate to make up. His stomach tensed as the cab neared her apartment in the downtown core. He could probably walk there from Owen’s place in Coal Harbour, which was good to know because there was a strong possibility she wouldn’t let him into the building at all.

But he’d deal with that if it happened.

A chill wind cut across his body, tugging at the edges of his shirt as he climbed out of the cab. Travis shivered. The months in Aruba had made him sensitive to the cooler weather in the Pacific Northwest. Before he’d moved there, he’d been known to wear short sleeves year round and only in the coldest, wettest months did his jacket make it out of the closet. As for a scarf or gloves? Forget it. Unnecessary. But now, he could do with a scarf. Except he really didn’t want to look like a hipster. Or wear skinny jeans.

He strode to the building, feeling the twist in his stomach, knowing there was a chance she’d turn him away or wouldn’t even answer when he buzzed. There was a fancy touch screen glowing beside the building’s front door—into it he punched the numbers that would call Mal’s suite. Owen had coughed up that information, too, as well as the fact that Mal—like many women who lived alone—didn’t post any personal information that could be tracked back to her. Protection from stalkers, weirdos, ex-boyfriends.

The system rang, that computer-generated double ring. Brrp-brrp. Brrp-brrp. Brrp-brrp. She didn’t answer, and for a moment Travis wondered if she was home. His stomach grew tenser as did the muscles in his neck, his legs, his hands. If she’d gone home with that slick-looking guy, he was going to...well, he’d do something. Something he’d have to figure out, but breaking something or punching a wall sounded like a good start.

“What do you want, Travis?”

He blinked and stared at the computer screen, which was still glowing but no longer ringing. “Mal?”

“Why are you here?” She didn’t sound welcoming, but at least she had answered.

Travis glanced up the side of the cement building, past the rows of windows reflecting the city lights. Was Mal behind one of them? Phone pressed against her ear looking down at him?

“You’re on camera,” she said, as though she’d read his mind.

He blinked again. Of course. A place like this would definitely have a camera at the front door to allow residents to see who was calling before they decided to pick up or let someone in. He should have figured that out on his own. “Can I come up?”

“Why?”

Which was better than a no. “I’d like to talk.” He waited, and when she didn’t refuse, he pressed a little harder. “Come on, Mal. I’ve been calling you for weeks. I just want to talk.” He didn’t just want to talk, but he didn’t want to scare her, either. The simple fact that she’d answered and hadn’t yet hung up on him was an improvement on past interactions.

“Travis. It’s late.” But she didn’t sound sure or maybe that was wishful thinking.

“It’s not that late.” It was, but he wasn’t about to admit it, wasn’t about to let her shuffle him off so easily. He reminded himself that in the old days, they’d often worked until closing on Sundays and then gone out to an after-hours place. It wasn’t even midnight yet. “Mal?”

“I have to get up early in the morning. Why don’t we meet for coffee tomorrow before I head to work?”

Travis might have agreed a few weeks ago, before Mal had become a professional avoider of him, but now he knew what would happen if he agreed. She wouldn’t show up. The excuse would run along the lines of she was running late and was so sorry but they’d have to reschedule, a surprise morning meeting had been called and she couldn’t miss it so they’d have to reschedule, there were no cabs, the buses were full, her shoes weren’t made for walking so they’d have to reschedule. Regardless of the reason, the result would be the same. Him and no Mal. “I’m here now.”

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