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Dr. Patel’s voice follows me to the door. “With Brandon?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t forget what we talked about.”
I get out, her words chasing me down to the elevator, down the street, all the way to Elliot’s like a ghost.
Brandon sits at our usual table, eyes fixed on the leather-bound menu in his hands as I approach. “I thought you wouldn’t come.” No ‘cupcake’. No smirk. Just a polite observation that somehow hurts worse than any barb.
“Traffic.” I slide into my seat. “Sorry.”
He hums noncommittally, still not meeting my gaze, his attention on the menu he surely knows by heart. I fidget with my napkin, the linen rasping against my fingertips.
Marcus appears, saving us from the awkward void. “Good evening, Ms. Smith. The usual tonight?”
I open my mouth to agree, the words ‘house salad, dressing on the side’ balanced on the tip of my tongue. Why won’t the words come out?
Brandon shifts in his seat, the menu lowering enough for me to catch a glimpse of his icy blue eyes as they finally, finally meet mine.
But he doesn’t push. No suggestions. No gentle prodding. Nothing. No, what about the burger?
“Actually.” Control. Be brave. I scan the specials.
The first item is pan-seared salmon with asparagus. Easy to digest. Light. Safe. But the lemon butter sauce…
I skip past the beef tenderloin and grilled chicken, too rich and heavy.
Last on the list: seafood risotto. Creamy. Heavy. Dangerous. But… I remember the way Brandon made it in college. His hands moving as he described what’s important, stirring the pot, adding stock one ladle at a time. The patience it takes. The care. How you had to trust the process.
My fingers trace the words on the menu, remembering Dr. Patel’s voice.Sometimes, the mess is where the healing starts.
The salmon would be safer. The chicken, safer still. But maybe safe isn’t what I need right now.
I look up, finding Brandon’s eyes still on me, waiting. Patient. Like stirring risotto, one careful movement at a time.
“I’ll have the seafood risotto,” I say.
Marcus’s pen freezes above his notepad, and his eyebrows climb toward his hairline as he glances between Brandon and me. “The… risotto?”
I nod, fingers clenching the edge of the table under the pristine white tablecloth. “Yes.”
“With the cream sauce?” Marcus’s voice carries a note of uncertainty I’ve never heard before. Of course he’s surprised. I’ve ordered nothing but salads since we started eating here.
“Yes.” My voice doesn’t shake. “And… a glass of the house white.”
Brandon’s menu hits the table with a soft thud.
“Very good, Ms. Smith,” Marcus says. “And for you, Mr. Milton?”
“The same.” Brandon’s voice is carefully neutral. “Both the risotto and the wine.”
Marcus nods and retreats, leaving us in a silence that feels different from the strained quiet of moments ago. I force myself to release my death grip on the table, smoothing my napkin across my lap instead.
“Risotto,” Brandon says.
“You’re not the only one who knows how to make it.” I chance a look up, finding his expression unreadable.
“I remember.” His fingers drum once against the stem of his water glass. “You were my taste tester in college.”