Page 81 of Hate Me Like You Mean It

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Went to grab coffee. Be back soon.

We need to talk.

Okay,so unlike me, Dominic hadn’t slept like the dead. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have been up this early, let alone functioning.

I swung my legs over the bed and plucked an oversized, faded charcoal tee and fresh underwear from my closet before shuffling to the bathroom, my head floating on a fluffy pink cloud of blissful delusion and euphoria.

What was supposed to be a ten-minute shower swallowed up the better half of the hour.

I kept zoning out, slipping back into the liquid memories of last night, and smiling at the wall like we were in love, the tiles and I.

Dom still wasn’t back by the time I finally stepped out, and the thought of forcing myself to sit still and wait for him made my elbows itch. So I pulled out Rosie’s recipe book, carefullyflipped through the pages (which I’d had laminated a few years ago after I’d accidentally splattered coffee on it), took a picture of the brekkie bowl Dominic used to inhale every Saturday morning while we fought over what cartoons to watch (which was asinine, given the sheer number of TVs we had between our two houses; no one was forcing us to watch them together), gently slid the book back into its custom-made waterproof slip, and got to work.

I peeled, I chopped, I whisked, I boiled. The potatoes were stripped of every bit of skin and seasoned both before and after they hit the pan, because he used to claim he could taste the difference. The bacon was cooked to a wavy crisp and cut with wavy kitchen shears for nostalgia’s sake, the first two eggs were poached to a gentle soft, the second pair to a standard medium, and while the hollandaise took me three tries, I eventually managed to whisk through the wrist pain and wrestle it into perfection.

I went off script and added truffles, because I knew he’d appreciate the flavor, and even decorated the dish, wiping the sides of the twin ceramic bowls, and carefully sprinkling tiny edible petals and finely chopped green onions over the gooey golden sauce.

All in all, it took me just under two hours to make.

But he still wasn’t back.

I worried the inside of my cheek, nudging at my place settings, my legs restless as I watched the wisps of steam slowly fade from the untouched bowl across the table.

Another half hour ticked by.

I didn’t know why I continued to sit there. What I thought might happen if I kept waiting.

There were at least ten different coffee shops within a five-minute drive of my apartment. He’d been gone for at least three hours.

I blinked down at my lap, my throat thick with more emotions than I could handle at one time. Sniffling, I picked up my fork, gave myself a little pep talk about crying over men who didn’t deserve it, and stabbed into my brekkie bowl.

It took a few tries to convince my mouth to actually take a bite, but I eventually managed. The potatoes were cold, a firm film marring the sauce I’d practically sprained my wrist to whisk up. I took a sleeve to my wet cheeks, chewing.

It’s okay. You did a really great job. Hollandaise just isn’t meant to sit out for this long.

I shoved another forkful into my mouth, my leg shaking as I sniffled, dabbed at my cheeks.

It’s okay. Imagine what you would say to Rachel if she’d been stood up. It’s not you. It’s okay. He’s not worth your tears. You’re going to be just fine.

I’d finished half the bowl now, barely giving myself a chance to swallow before taking another bite.

It’s okay. You’re okay. It’s going to be okay.

You’ve survived the last eight years without him. You can do?—

My fork clattered against the table, my chin wobbling uncontrollably as I reached for it again with trembling fingers. I speared another potato, tears streaming down my neck. Pins and needles poked at my shaking leg, and my stomach rolled.

I tried, I really did. But I physically couldn’t force myself to take another bite.

I put my fork down just in time for the front door lock to gentlybeeponce. Twice. Four times.

Click.

A part of me was tempted to leap to my feet and whip around. It wanted to wipe away any and all evidence of my tears, steel my spine, and put on the tried-and-true, practiced mask of indifference.

Another part of me—a bigger, much louder part—was, to put it simply, really fucking tired.