Ilardi was the sort of expensive, high-gloss restaurant Norma frequently fantasized about but never actually believed she'd experience. A three month waiting list just to get a reservation, unless you fancied waiting around outside for hours in the hopes someone would forget their date, and once you were in the bill set you back so much you were better off putting a down payment on a new car.

Only seemed natural that Jonathan, though he'd been in town a mere two days, would secure them a table and waltz her through the front door like he owned the place. She hadn't asked how he'd managed it; struck her as a rude, albeit tempting (very, very tempting, in fact) question.

He'd shown up at her door precisely at 6:30, tiger lilies in hand, made of charm and a broad smile, suit perfectly tailored. No doubt some designer she'd never heard of, but would later wish she had. He'd opened the car door for her, driven safely but a bit too quickly to the restaurant, preemptively tipped the valet, and pulled her chair out at the table.

"You look beautiful," he said, once seated across from her. He'd not deprived her of compliments on the way over, either. In fact, they hadn't particularly conversed so much as she listened to him wax poetic about her beauty, a speech that lasted nigh twenty minutes and was, at times, a bit over the top. Not that she cared. No matter how elaborate or rapid-fire his praise, it sounded warm, and genuine, like there was no one else he'd rather spend an evening with.

A nice change of pace, if she were honest. Dylan was too busy with Emma these days; Norman was too busy being Norman; and Alex? Well, she tried not to think about Alex. Not too much, anyway. Better to enjoy the company you have, she'd decided, not the company you miss.

"Jon, this place is gorgeous," she said, flipping through the menu. "But you didn't have to go to all this trouble!"

"Oh, no. No trouble at all. The owner's an old friend."

"Oh?" Norma glanced up, brows knit in confusion. "You've been here before?"

"Born and raised." He smiled, a lazy drawing of his lips over his teeth. Bashful, almost, like he found his lack of forthcoming shameful. "It's not something I talk about much. Not close with the family and all that. You know how it goes."

"Mm, I do, yes. But do they still live here? I might know them, maybe we could—"

"Dead." He said it so quickly, so sharply, that Norma startled. But then he smiled again, and offered an apologetic shrug. "It happened a long time ago. Difficult for me to talk about. Even if we weren't all that close."

"Death's hard that way. When my mother died," she began, softly, "I was fine for days. Didn't cry, didn't care, didn't even think about it. It was just 'oh, mother's dead. I wonder what I should make for dinner?' And then I went right back to my day, like nothing mattered."

"Until suddenly it did?" he ventured.

Norma nodded. "I guess I didn't expect it. One second I was fine, and the next I was sitting at the kitchen table and there wasn't enough amaretto in the world."

"For me it was bourbon."

"Oh," she said, a trace of a laugh in her voice, "you have that in common with—" But she trailed off, instead, didn't bother to finish her sentence. No point in bringing him up. Not here, not today. Not with a gorgeous man paying for what would no doubt prove to be her hideously expensive dinner. One who didn't act bored or repulsed by talk of the dead, or sadness.

Not exactly dinner conversation, was it? And they'd only sat down moments ago. Yet he didn't seem to mind, and his ease with her and his ownership of the space around him—as if he owned the very air they both breathed, and as she was currently apart of his world, she owned it, too—helped her relax, give into the flow of it.

"This is the first time in a long time that I haven't felt … nervous, I guess," she said, and shrugged. "I know that sounds odd; we just met, of course, and we're here to talk about business. But it's been a long time since I've been able to go out and have dinner with someone. Just two adults talking."

"Motherhood's a demanding job, I hear."

It wasn't exactly that, of course. Norma was, above and beyond all else, a mother. But motherhood bespoke something else, something sweeter. This dance with Norman and Bob Paris and the tension with Alex … whatever this was, it was something all together different. A special brand of Hell, maybe, and one she'd hope would come to a swift end.

The waiter saved her from having to respond, arriving to take their respective orders, and fetching a bottle of wine. Jon, a fount of knowledge on all things out of her price range, tasted it and deemed it worthy of the table.

By the time they finished their meals—conversation ranging from basic pleasantries (no, Jon said, he'd never been married. Never had kids, either, though now and again he regretted it. No pets to speak of, but he liked plants, and sometimes he wished he had a dog to come home to) to the slightly ribald ("And that's why I can't go back to Canada," Norma said. "So much for a road trip, right?") to the somber ("It's hard being an orphan," he told her, and she'd nodded, understanding all too well. "I just turned forty-six, and it's not any easier.")—they were both three glasses of wine in, and prepared to begin working on the fourth.

Jon was the first to reach for the second bottle. "We haven't even gotten down to business!" he said, but there was no trace of annoyance. Just a warm laugh, and a smile—Norma liked the way the skin around his eyes crinkled when he smiled, the sort of open expression that had, or so it seemed to her, nothing to hide—as he reached for her glass and topped her off.

"Pff, who cares? We have all night." Her words were just slightly slurred, and normally she would've felt self-conscious. She seldom drank, especially not in public. But he was just as tipsy and relaxed and joyful as she. And so none of it mattered, she realized. This was ease. This was the simplicity of two people enjoying one another's company. No tension, no screaming matches, no irritatingly beautiful, sullen, guarded men harassing her to tell the truth or reveal her secrets or give up the precious hold on her son.

Jon was nothing like Alex, she'd known that from the first moment she'd met him. His manner, his smile, his voice, even his smell set him apart, made him a unique entity in her world.

But Alex was so inherently singular, so utterly his own man, that it was impossible to properly compare the two, though she tried.

Alex Romero was only ever capable of being Alex Romero. Incomparable, irreplaceable, impossible, annoying as Hell, with an irritating way of barging into her thoughts.

"So," Norma said, determined to shun any and all nagging thoughts of the damned Sheriff, "tell me what you brought me here to tell me."

Perhaps it was best to cut to the chase. Business always made for such a useful distraction.

Alex Romero was tired of pizza. And lo mein. And shitty coffee and cheap beer and expensive bourbon, the latter of which he found astonishing. Bourbon had been a friend and ally for more years than he could count. But lately it tasted like gasoline, and regret. Unsavory, and irritating. Best to leave it behind for a few days, he thought.

Normally he didn't much care for wandering into town at a reasonable hour. Eight p.m. and downtown was awash with light and laughter and children and happy couples, restaurants and bars churning up business left, right, and center. It should've made him happy, really. It used to. He thrived when the town thrived. That was why he'd wanted to become a cop as a kid: to do some good. To bring some prosperity to the people of White Pine Bay. Not the old-blood, wealthy families, but the people. People like him, and his mother, who struggled and fought and just wanted a slice of peace in their little corner of the world.

Not so long ago people greeted him with respect, even fear. But the tides had changed. Bob warned him of it, though initially he'd ignored it. Difficult to do so now, when individuals he passed either openly glared or avoided eye contact. Many simply did their best to avoid acknowledging him, discomfort evident on their faces.

It wasn't entirely unpleasant, if he were honest. He used to loathe the crush of people, too many faces asking too many questions. Made it difficult to get anything done, or even just catch a breather. Some part of him, no matter how painful this particular isolation felt, enjoyed the freedom to simply dress down and exist as Alex Romero. Not a sheriff; not a cop; just Alex.

Fuck them, he thought, with a touch more bitterness than he was prepared to expect. Fuck everything. He'd wander down to the diner, or maybe that new bistro that popped up. Snag a strong shot of espresso and a decent meal. Eat until satiety and exhaustion got the better of him, and then drive home, fall into the coma-like sleep he'd been enjoying recently. A nice change of pace to his usual insomnia.

But it was her laugh that caught his attention, and subsequently derailed all his plans. The high, trilling, delighted laugh he'd secretly loved. The sound of it never failed to move him; he wished he were funnier. Lighter, maybe, more easy going. All so he could hear it more. He never made Norma laugh, not really, and he mourned it. Not that he'd ever admit it.

"Alex?" She'd caught sight of him too, though only when he'd stopped in front of her, too stunned to really move, trying to piece together exactly what he was seeing.

"Evening, Norma."

Norma look startled, and then something resembling pleased. At least until a man came up to her—the same one from the motel, Alex realized—and slid an arm around her waist while holding the other hand out for a polite introduction.

"Good evening! Jonathan Cotterill. And you are…?" he said, and Alex didn't fail to catch the alarm rapidly swallowing Norma's features.

"Alex Romero." He offered a terse nod, and shook the man's hand, though only out of the barest respect for civility. Already he didn't like him; reminded him of Bob and that breed of so-called gentlemen. Suit expensive, nigh overly tailored. Teeth too even, too white. And a forehead that didn't move: too much botox.

Yes, Alex thought, he absolutely fucking hated him.

"Pleasure to meet you," Jon said.

"Doubtful," Alex replied.

"Alex!" Norma, annoyed and nervous and glancing back and forth between them, nevertheless had the wherewithal to snap at him. Her hand was on his arm before he could protest, and she turned to Jonathan, muttered a quick "I'm so sorry, this will just be a moment," and proceeded to drag Alex down the sidewalk and into the alley behind the restaurant.

"Norma," Alex snapped, jerking his arm from her hand. "The Hell do you think you're doing?" He'd been patient enough to let her pull him over here, but there were limits.

"What the Hell are you doing?"

"Just making conversation. Thought that was obvious."

"Conversation? Are you kidding? You didn't need to be so rude."

"Pretty sure he can take it, Norma." He nodded to Jon, who was otherwise engaged with a phone call. "Looks like he's already moved on. I doubt he'll cry himself to sleep tonight."

"God, do you have to be such an ass?"

Alex, exhausted and hungry and not hugely fond of the idea of playing third wheel to Norma and her new boyfriend, rolled his eyes. "As a matter of fact, yes. Now, if you'll excuse me—"

"You've been ignoring my calls like a churlish child, and now you're just going to walk away?"

"Pretty sure your date's waiting for you, Norma."

"He's not my date." She said it so swiftly, so firmly, that for one brief, stupid moment he felt his heart rate kick up a notch, the first glimmer of hope beginning to settle in his chest. Didn't like acknowledging his jealousy.

He especially didn't like having to face the fact that seeing her with another man had driven him crazy for two days. He'd taken his jacket to be cleaned, eager to fade the scent of her perfume, but backed out at the last minute. Just couldn't bring himself to do it. And he still reread her frantic, annoyed texts every spare moment that he had. And the image of her touching Jon's arm in the Bates Motel parking lot still haunted him every time he closed his eyes.

Finding them together like this? And with her dressed like that? Hair pulled up, lips scarlet, little satin heels and a black dress and a plunging neckline? Too much. Too goddamned much.

It physically hurt to see them together; hurt all the more that Jon, apparently, could make her laugh. And Alex didn't want to give into it, didn't want to say anything, or hold even the tiniest glimmer of hope in all of this chaotic racket, but she'd said he wasn't a date and he just couldn't bring himself to ignore it:

"He's not your date?" he asked, softly. More softly that he would've liked; felt like it gave too much away.

"No," Norma said, shaking head head. "Not my date."

Alex had been about to reach for her, gently, tentatively, to put a hand on her arm and let his eyes soften and ask 'Then why are we doing this? Why don't we get a drink? Talk things over,' but before he could she followed up with "I mean, not exactly my date," and it was over. Whatever softness or warmth or hope that had been brewing snuffed out, replaced by that old familiar jealousy and a cold hand squeezing something low and painful in his gut.

"You should get back to him, Norma," he said. Pleased with the evenness of his voice, and the way his hands stayed steady at his sides.

"Wait, Alex, I just—"

"Goodnight, Norma."

Fuck everything, he thought.

Fuck everyone.

"What was that all about?" Jon asked. At her side not seconds after Alex left her standing, annoyed and dumbfounded, on the sidewalk. She'd watched him walk back the way he came, hands in his pockets, posture rigid. And though she kept hoping he'd glance back, look at her, give her something to work with, he never did.

"Oh, you know," she said, finally. Voice sounded sad to her own ears, and she tried to perk up for Jon's sake. "That's just how he is."

"Friend of yours?"

"Yes. Well…" a pause as she thought, bit her lip. "Sort of."

"Ah, one of those situations. Been there a few times myself."

"He's the sheriff," she said, and shrugged. "It's a hard job, and he never really relaxes, you know?"

"Sheriff?" Jon asked, and Norma was startled by just how interested he suddenly seemed. "And you know him well?"

"Not well, exactly." Norma glanced up, only to find him staring intently down the road after Alex. "I mean, not in any intimate capacity." Truth be told, she wasn't entirely sure that was a lie; the more she thought she knew the sheriff, the more she saw the glaring, gaping distance between them.

"Mm, perhaps you can introduce me again later. When he's in a better mood. Would be useful to get him on our side."

"Oh, no," she said, a bit too quickly. "Alex isn't like that. I don't think he cares much for politics—"

"You'd be surprised what people care about for the right price." Then, as an afterthought, "Well, I should take you home, hm? You must be eager to get back to your son."

"I am, yes, but are you sure you should be driving?"

"I'm fine to drive. And the sheriff's off duty; I think we'll be alright."

He'd forgotten dinner. And the goddamned espresso. So it was back to the bourbon, which still didn't taste any better, but at least it served a decent purpose: washing the image of Norma—and the sound of her sweet, delighted little laugh—out of his head.

He was sprawled on his couch, half-drunk and exhausted, still dressed (though he'd kicked his boots off somewhere along the line) when his phone rang.

"Romero."

"Sir? This is Deputy Lin."

"Go ahead."

"We've just pulled a body, and a car, out from the bay."

"And?"

"And," Deputy Lin said, an obvious sigh in her voice, "I think you should come in and take a look at this."

"Report whatever you find, leave it on my desk. I'll deal with it when I come in tomorrow."

"But sir—"

"Tomorrow, Lin."

Lin was easy to hang up on.

If only Norma were that easy to ignore.

He took another long swallow of bourbon; felt the alcohol burn his throat and his veins, slow his heart, begin lulling him towards sleep; pushed himself up and wandered towards his bedroom. It was cold, and dark, the bed too big, and too empty. All the walls bare. Lacking something essential, something alive. Something feminine, and soft, made of childlike glee and finely-carved beauty. Something to balance out his edges and his hardness and his stoicism, the roughness of his hands and how seldom he laughed.

Something he'd never have.