I will remind you what hell looks like

This was generally how their conversations past the two inches of depth they allowed each other went. Both were unwilling to penetrate into anything beyond the shallows, despite the fact that they knew that they held the shell-shocked remnants of their souls, pieced and bandaged together the best way they knew how. For Arthur, that meant shoving the pain into the back of his brain, never to see the light of day, lest it grow into something uncontrollable.

“I’ll drink to that.” Arthur raised his glass — alive. Yes, that was good enough. Frankly, he didn’t know if he would’ve made it past his twenties, but here he was, forty-two and still on both legs, mostly put together. He took a large sip of his drink, shrugging as he listened to Samuel’s following comments. “Nah; I know if you start crying the world’ll end the next day, no doubt about it,” he joked, an attempt to lighten the mood once more. “And the day I ask you to fucking talk about your shit… well, you could say the same exact thing that I just did.”

He’d had reason to cry. The tears he’d shed for Miriam were fervent, but private - not even at her funeral had he cried. Samuel remembered the comments made in various papers and gossip columns afterward, pointing out how a cold, calculating businessman like Samuel Antwi wouldn’t have a single ounce of love for as warm and effervescent of a woman Miriam had been, how it was unsurprising he wasn’t truly in mourning.

Well, fuck them all.

“Mm. You couldn’t handle my shit anyway.” He took another long drink, then sighed as he drummed his fingers on his thigh. “Something tells me I’m just...tired. That woman came from the lawyer again today,” he drawled. He mentioned her often enough, always as That Woman, never by name, if only because he knew it would drive her up a wall to be talked about like that. “Stack of papers thick as one of the trees out front, all for me to sign.” Samuel’s lips quirked and he huffed out a quiet chuckle. “She was more than happy to leave them there, pick them up another time, but I said, ‘Marion, you and I both know you have nothing better to do, so sit down for once.’ She didn’t like that very much.” Samuel snorted again. “One day someone must explain to me why I enjoy antagonizing people so much.”

She nodded her head, unable to hide the feeling of pride that came through her whenever she talked about owning Norwood’s. “My dad retired last year, and I took over full ownership of the place” she said, the pride she felt obvious in her voice. Not that she thought such a thing would impress one of the richest men in Catalina. After all, Norwood’s wasn’t going to be a restaurant empire anytime soon. And Harper was okay with that. She was just happy she could call the place her own after all these years of working for her father. “No trouble, exactly, although I’d be lying if I didn’t say I felt like I was going prematurely grey.” The job involved long hours, even longer than she was used to when she worked for her father. And being the sole owner meant it was down to her to turn a profit and make sure everyone got paid. “We did get everyone new uniforms a few months ago, which I feel like is a step up.” The old ones had seemed almost universally unflattering on the servers. These ones weren’t going to make the cover of Vogue, but at least nobody looked like a penguin in them.

“Mm. Small favors.” But though Samuel’s tone regarding the uniform change was dull and unimpressed, his mind was working relentlessly. He’d owned a business for a significant amount of time now, to the point that he could act as more of a figurehead than someone in his headquarters five days out of the week. He had experience. And a new business owner or manager could use some thoughts, or perhaps at least encouragement. “If your employees feel comfortable in what they wear, especially if you were able to provide it gratis, then they’ll be far more loyal than you think. Appreciative, even. What about the menu? Are you bringing any changes to that?”

“No, no! It’s fine, I didn’t mind the wait,” said Rory, shaking his head slightly in an effort to reassure the other. The truth was simpler, albeit more difficult to admit: this was his only agenda for the afternoon. Rory had specifically asked their department secretary to keep the latter half of the day clear for him, in the hopes of perhaps getting acquainted with the Samuel Antwi in the short time they’d already been working together. 

It would be a lie for him to say he’d arrived with the express purpose of showing some designs. No, part of him had been colored intrigued at his elusiveness of years past and had endeavored to figure out what he truly was. Even if it were a rough-and-tumble, and particularly uphill, battle. 

“Of course,” he replied, before sheepishly adding, “er, would you like to hold this meeting in your office? Or would you like someplace less formal. Perhaps in your dining room, or over some restaurant?” An invitation, gloriously unsubtle — but then again, Rory wasn’t truly known for his subtlety. 

That incredibly obvious transition made Samuel look at Rory for a long moment with a quirked brow. He fought the urge to smile, and succeeded with incredible ease - he hadn’t been through years of successful corporate takeover without being able to wear a mask.

Even still, he was endlessly amused by this clearly successful man attempting to get dinner with Samuel. As if he couldn’t simply ask without making it about business.

His one comfort was that the man hadn’t tried to flirt with him. Even a night with Val hadn’t made Samuel more comfortable with his own...lesser known proclivities.

“Does your boss pay you so little that you can’t afford to eat, Hirsch?” Samuel drawled, but without cruelty in his sandpaper dry tone. “Pity. Suppose I’ll have to make sure you don’t starve myself.” He took his phone out of his pocket, typed a few words, then waved two fingers in a gesture toward himself as he began to walk. “Come. My chef will prepare a second plate. We’ll dine within the next twenty minutes.

“Do you drink, Hirsch? Brandy, wine, beer?”

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       He wasn’t a stranger to flirting with men, however, since getting married more than a decade ago, his skills needed a bit of polishing. It was almost an entirely different game compared to flirting with women, a bit trickier to tread, but that hasn’t stopped him before, especially not now as he stood in front of the taller male. He didn’t seem at all repulsed, which could either mean he was into it, or just didn’t care. Or maybe he was repulsed and was just too polite to say anything. “I don’t know, man. The color was pretty. Don’t you think the color’s pretty?” he said, holding the shirt up higher. “What would you choose for me, then?”

“The color reminds me of technicolor vomit.” If the man was going to be so...so...friendly, then Samuel wasn’t afraid to be blunt. He kept his gaze on the mirror as he continued to adjust the fit of what he was trying on - better that than risk...what? That the man would say something bright and flirting again? His heart skipped a beat at the mere idea. What was it with these men who flirted so openly and unabashedly? “I’m not a stylist. And even if I was, I doubt you could afford my fee. I’m sure there’s a number of people working here who’d be happy to dress you, if you’re having trouble picking out a single color.”

Was she willing to possibly risk her life on a trip out of the city to get some coffee. With a stranger? A perfectly handsome stranger who tried to bite her head off within minutes of - was she willing to risk getting murdered. For coffee? “Do you know good coffee places in LA?” She definitely wasn’t leaving the island for mediocre coffee. Why was she even considering it?

Maybe they’d settle small. So what if they were the real Bermuda Triangle.

Faith shook her head, ego boost wasn’t the thing she needed nor wanted at all. It was better to pass it on than anything. “If you really wanted to give me an ego boost, you’ll let me pay.” It was easy and she was offering. “Otherwise no, my ego is doing relatively fine where it is.”

Samuel snorted. “I know my way around LA.” Perhaps the accent suggested he’d just come off a plane yesterday, since he hadn’t lost a lick of his posh drawl in all his years of being in American purely due to stubbornness, but he hadn’t been able to run a company without a bit of jetsetting over the years.

Still. A lot could have changed since the last time he took that ferry over. And the thought still made his heart skip a beat.

“All right. If you believe you know a better coffee place on this little tourist trap of the island...then I invite you to show me. And, if I’m sufficiently impressed by the atmosphere, then I might let you cover the bill.”

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