Chapter 4 - The Copper Room

PART 4: THE COPPER ROOM

Two days later, Kane took me to dinner.

Not a late-night wing spot. Not a "pull up, I have food" situation. A real dinner. Reservations, candles, serviettes made of actual cloth, and a hostess who looked at us like she could smell our tax bracket but wasn't quite sure what to do with it.

The restaurant sat in Rosebank with big windows, low lights, and soft jazz playing like everybody in there had made better decisions than me. The tables had little gold lamps on them, and the menus didn't have prices next to some of the meals, which I considered emotional terrorism.

Kane wore a black button-up that still couldn't hide the tattoos creeping up his neck, dark jeans, and a watch that looked like it had its own security team. I wore an emerald green dress that hugged me just right, heels that made me walk slower than usual, and perfume I only wore when I wanted to be remembered.

When I got in his bakkie, Kane looked at me and forgot how to blink.

"You look good," he said.

"I know."

His mouth curved. "My bad. You look beautiful."

"Better."

At the restaurant, he held my hand across the table.

Not under the table.

Not only when nobody was looking.

Across the table.

Out in the open.

His thumb moved slowly over my knuckles while he asked about my day, and for once, I wasn't sitting there wondering if somebody would walk up and embarrass me. I wasn't checking the door. I wasn't scanning the room for women with attitudes and screenshots. I wasn't performing calm while my spirit sat in the corner with boxing gloves on.

I felt quiet.

Not bored quiet.

Safe quiet.