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Forty-nine
Cari
He’s different.
He’s not the same guy he was when you left.
That’s what Con said to me this afternoon, brooding over his grilled cheese. I thought he was being dramatic. Trying to get a rise out of me. Manipulate me into doing what he thinks is right—and maybe he was. But he was also telling the truth.
It’s not just the suit or the car.
Patrick is different.
More confident. Sure of himself. What he wants. Who he is. Last night, watching him make dinner, I thought the same thing. Felt the difference in him. It was disconcerting then. Tonight, it’s intimidating.
“Is everything okay?”
I look up to find him standing close, face angled toward mine and clouded with concern. He has his hand on the small of my back, the other poised to pull Davino’s heavy glass door open on its hinges. The contact is familiar. Intimate, even. Like last night, I feel like I’m looking at a total stranger.
“Yes.” I smile up at him, trying to calm the ridiculous flutter of nerves in my belly. “Just nervous, I guess,” I say.
Instead of asking me why he leans close and presses a quick kiss to my forehead. “That’s why you brought me, remember?” he murmurs in my ear. Beneath the expensive aftershave I can smell him. The real him. He smells like himself—sawdust and sunlight—like my Patrick and I hold the smell of him in my lungs. Let it calm me while he opens the door to the restaurant and ushers me inside.
The calm is short-lived.
The hostess, a gorgeous brunette in a slinky red dress, sees us. Coming out from behind the podium, she approaches Patrick like they’re old friends. “Patrick,” she purrs, tilting her cheek expectantly. “It’s been too long—and without calling first.” Her pewter-colored eyes flash affection and humor. “You must be punished.”
Patrick laughs. “Do whatever you want to me—just don’t tell Davey I’m here,” he says before pressing a quick kiss to her cheek.
Davey?
“He already knows you’re here, I’m sure,” she tells him. “Now quit being rude and introduce me to your date.”
“Silver,” He steps away from her, his hand still pressed into the small of my back. “This is my—” He stumbles but recovers quickly. “friend, Cari. Cari, this is Silver.”
Friend? Did he just call me his friend?
“Cari.” Silver smiles at me, reaching out to take me by the shoulders. “It’s so nice to meet you,” she says warmly before pressing her cheek to mine in the kind of kiss women give in order to protect their lipstick. Releasing me, she reverts her attention back to Patrick. “Your usual table?” she asks, skirting the podium to run a perfectly manicured finger down her leather-bound ledger. “I can bump—”
Usual table?
“That won’t be necessary, but thank you,” he says, reaching for the belt tied around my coat. I have the insane urge to fight him off. I have no desire to embarrass myself by showing Silver the outlet special underneath. “We’re meeting people...” dipping his chin, Patrick catches my attention. “Who’s the reservation under?” he asks me while I unbutton my coat.
“It should be under Chase,” I say, amazed that I’m able to form coherent sentences. “Everette Chase.” As soon as my jacket is open, it’s immediately taken by a valet I hadn’t noticed until his murmured, I’ll take that miss. He whisks my coat off my shoulders before disappearing into the coat room. I have ground my heels into the floor to keep myself from chasing after him.
“Of course,” Silver flashes me a dreamy smile at the mention of Chase, and I’m relieved to see it. It makes her seem less perfect somehow. “Right this way.”
Patrick takes my hand while she leads us down a short hallway that opens on a surprisingly large dining room. Coffered ceilings. Walnut crown molding and pillars gleam softly. Muted gold wallpaper. Crystal chandeliers. Wait staff in black slacks and starched white shirts, buzz the room, delivering room and refilling wine glasses with a dizzying mixture of solicitousness and efficiency, while wealthy diners eat their expensive meals and drink their thirty-dollar martinis with an air of expectation that I can’t even begin to comprehend.
A year ago, I wanted nothing more than to belong in a place like this. Now, I just want to go home. Put on my yoga pants and order Chinese.
“By the way,” Silver says, looking back at me over her shoulder while she weaves her way between tables. “I love your shoes.”
I want to hear snark in her tone. I want to think she’s ridiculing me, but I can’t. The compliment is genuine, and so is she.
I look down at the red, patent-leather peep-toes I’m wearing. I bought them years ago, in a vintage shop in Cambridge. Even second-hand, they cost more than any reasonable person would spend on shoes. As soon as I left the store, I regretted buying them. At home, in front of the mirror, I thought they made me look like an Amazon warrior, moonlighting as a hooker. It took me years and a moderate shoe emergency to even consider wearing them in public.
Right now, I’m not thinking about any of that.
Because all I can think is, Patrick fucked me in these shoes.
Twice.
“Thank you,” I say, returning her smile. “They’re my favorite.”
His fingers tighten briefly around mine, his mouth curving into a wicked grin. “Mine too.”