Chapter 9 - A Date Without Rescue
Marcus chose a small restaurant in Brooklyn for his first intentional date with Naomi.
No Bellmont.
No reporters.
No business.
No family.
Those were the rules.
Naomi arrived wearing jeans, boots and a dark green sweater.
Marcus smiled.
“You look different.”
“So do you.”
He looked down at his navy jacket.
“This is my rebellious outfit.”
“You're terrifying.”
They laughed.
For twenty minutes, they successfully avoided every forbidden subject.
Then Naomi's phone displayed a news alert about Marcus.
She turned it facedown.
Marcus noticed.
“Thank you.”
“For what?”
“Not reading it.”
“I already know strangers are ridiculous.”
He smiled.
Dinner arrived.
Naomi watched Marcus shift his left leg beneath the table.
“Pain?”
“A little.”
“You want to move?”
He looked at her.
“That's not pity?”
“No. It's a chair question.”
Marcus adjusted his position.
“I'm good.”
Naomi nodded.
They continued eating.
Eventually Marcus asked, “Why architecture?”
Naomi smiled.
“My mother.”
“I guessed.”
“She used to take me into buildings and ask what they were saying.”
Marcus frowned.
“Saying?”
“She'd point to giant marble stairs and ask, ‘What does this say to someone who can't climb them?’ Or narrow hallways. Heavy doors. Bad lighting.”
Marcus looked around the restaurant.
“What does this place say?”
Naomi studied the room.
“That the owner loves candles and hates people with low vision.”
Marcus laughed.
She continued.
“Mom believed design was power because most people never notice it until it excludes them.”
Marcus became quiet.
“What did buildings say to you after you got sick?” Naomi asked.
He looked toward the doorway.
“That I had never noticed how much of the world had been designed for the body I used to have.”
Naomi listened.
“No inspirational speech?”
“No.”
“Good.”
Marcus smiled faintly.
“People kept calling me brave for going grocery shopping.”
Naomi laughed.
He did too.
Then his expression shifted.
“The hardest part wasn't the chair.”
“What was?”
“People changing around me.”
Naomi waited.
“My fiancée left.”
She had not known.
“I'm sorry.”
“She tried for eight months.”
“Did she leave because of the disability?”
Marcus looked toward the window.
“Partly.”
“What was the other part?”
“I became impossible.”
Naomi blinked.
He continued.
“I was angry. Controlling. I refused help and then resented people for not helping correctly.”
“That sounds exhausting.”
“It was.”
“For both of you.”
“Yes.”
Naomi appreciated his honesty.
Marcus took a drink.
“I spent years telling the story as if she abandoned me.”
“But?”
“She left a situation neither of us knew how to survive.”
Naomi studied him.
“Do you still love her?”
“No.”
“Do you still blame her?”
“Less every year.”
She nodded.
Marcus looked at Naomi.
“What about you?”
“Relationships?”
“Yes.”
“Two serious ones.”
“What happened?”
“The first wanted children immediately. I didn't.”
“And the second?”
“He wanted me to be less ambitious.”
Marcus grimaced.
“That's efficient.”
“He said architecture was consuming me.”
“Was it?”
“Yes.”
Marcus smiled.
“At least he diagnosed accurately.”
Naomi kicked his shoe gently beneath the table.
The date felt normal.
That was what made it intimate.
After dinner, they walked and rolled along the waterfront.
Marcus's wheelchair moved smoothly beside Naomi.
At one point she placed a hand briefly against his shoulder when a cyclist passed too close.
She removed it immediately.
Marcus missed the contact.
He surprised himself by saying, “You can leave it there.”
Naomi looked at him.
“Bossy.”
“Clear communication.”
She rested her hand again.
They stopped beside the railing.
Manhattan glowed across the river.
Marcus looked at her.
“Can I kiss you?”
Naomi smiled.
“You ask?”
“I've discovered consent improves reviews.”
She laughed.
“Yes.”
He kissed her.
Softly.
Nothing cinematic exploded.
No crowd applauded.
No Lamborghini appeared.
It was simply warm and brief and real.
When they separated, Naomi said, “That's going to complicate the conflict disclosure.”
Marcus laughed.
“I hate you.”
“No, you don't.”
“No.”
He looked at her.
“I don't.”
Her phone rang.
Henry.
Naomi answered.
“What's wrong?”
His voice was loud enough for Marcus to hear.
“Someone broke into our office.”
Naomi stiffened.
“What?”
“The Bellmont archive drive is gone.”
Marcus's expression changed.
Naomi grabbed her bag.
“Call the police.”
“I already did.”
“Did they take anything else?”
Henry hesitated.
“Your desk was searched.”
Naomi went cold.
Marcus turned his wheelchair toward the parking area.
“We're going.”
Naomi hung up.
“You don't have to—”
“I'm not rescuing you.”
She stopped.
Marcus met her eyes.
“I'm going because whoever did this may know we have evidence.”
Naomi nodded.
They hurried toward the car.
Twenty minutes later, police stood inside Ellison Rowe's office.
Drawers had been emptied.
Cabinets forced open.
Naomi's computer remained.
Cash remained.
Artwork remained.
Only one category of material was missing.
Bellmont.
An officer approached carrying a plastic evidence bag.
“We found this taped under your desk.”
Inside was a printed photograph.
Marcus outside the Bellmont.
Naomi beside him.
Across the bottom, someone had written four words.
Your mother should have stopped.
Naomi stared.
Marcus felt fear replace anger.
Because the message revealed something neither of them had understood.
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