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I bring it to my lips, letting the warmth flood my mouth. The rice is perfectly al dente, the seafood tender, the sauce rich without being overwhelming. It tastes like…
“Good?” He watches me.
I nod, taking another bite before I can overthink it. “Almost as good as yours.”
Surprise or pride flickers in his eyes before his mask slides back into place.
Suddenly, the risotto turns to lead in my stomach, each bite sitting heavy on my tongue. My stomach churns, that familiar urge rising like a tide I can’t control. I need to get out of here. Need to feel something, anything, even if it’s the burn of acid in my throat.
“Excuse me.” I push my chair back, placing the napkin on the table.
His head snaps up, reaching for my wrist. “You’re doing it again?”
My heart stutters.
“Sorry.” His hand drops to his lap like a puppet with cut strings. “Not my place anymore.”
And it’s my fault. What did I expect? I did this.
I turn away before he can see the tears pricking at my eyes, my feet carrying me toward the sanctuary of the bathroom on autopilot.
Control.
The first wave hits before I can even properly position myself over the toilet, my body rebelling against the meager sustenance I’ve given it.
Stupid. Stupid girl, thinking you could handle this. Thinking you could sit across from him and pretend like everything was fine, like the sight of him, doesn’t make you want to claw your own skin off every time because of what you did.
The bathroom door creaks open, and I freeze, acid burning my throat as I listen to the approaching footsteps.
“Naomi?” Brandon’s voice is flat. “Open up.”
I wipe my mouth with trembling fingers. “Get out.”
“Here.” Something clinks against the marble counter. “Baking soda and water. It’ll help with the acid.”
Of course. Of course he still knows exactly what I need, even now. Even when we’re nothing to each other.
I emerge from the stall on shaky legs. He stands there, hands in his pockets, a glass next to him on the counter.
“Rinse.” He nods at it. “Don’t swallow.”
I do as instructed, avoiding his reflection in the mirror.
“I’ve been thinking,” he says as I rinse a third time. “About our arrangement.”
The glass nearly slips from my grip. “What about it?”
“It’s served its purpose, hasn’t it?” His voice is so carefully neutral it stings. “Your mother’s gone. My father, too. There’s no reason to keep up appearances anymore.”
I set the glass down before I drop it, my hands shaking too badly to maintain the grip. “I suppose not.”
“I’ll handle the press if something comes up. Make sure the story spins favorably for both of us.” He straightens his already perfect tie. “A mutual, amicable parting. No drama.”
No drama. Like the past year meant nothing? Like we’re just closing a business deal instead of ripping my heart out and stomping on it?
My voice sounds distant, hollow. “If that’s what you want.”
“Want has nothing to do with it.” He moves toward the door. “It’s just practical.”