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I nod at him, sinking into the leather seat. The fabric of my dress catches on the upholstery, another habit I haven’t broken. Dressing up for these dinners, even though Brandon’s seen me in sweats and one of his old t-shirts.
A very comfortable old T-shirt, I actually miss.
“Would you like to order, or are you waiting for Mr. Milton?”
My throat tightens. “I’ll wait.”
The water arrives, condensation beading on the glass like the sweat forming on my palms. Ice cubes clink as I lift it, trying to wash away the bitter taste of feeling pathetic.
What am I doing here?
I should leave. Should stop checking my phone every thirty seconds. Should stop glancing at the door like a desperate ex-girlfriend.
But I stay. Watch the minutes tick by on my phone screen. One hour stretches into forever, each passing moment cementing what I already know.
He meant it. He’s really done.
The water glass is empty, my chest feels hollow, and Brandon Milton isn’t going to walk through that door.
My phone buzzes against the table, his name lighting up the screen. My heart stops, then races.
His voice sounds rough, like he hasn’t slept. “What are you doing?”
I look around the restaurant. “What do you mean?” Is he here?
“You’re at our table.”
Heat creeps up my neck. “Are you stalking me?”
“Elliot texted.” A pause. “Said you’ve been sitting there for an hour, although I canceled our regular reservations.”
Of course Elliot would tell Brandon. Of course Brandon would call. Of course I’d make a fool of myself, sitting here like some lovesick teenager who can’t take a hint.
The ice in my glass has melted, water droplets sliding down to pool on the white tablecloth. Just like the first time we met here, when he ordered that ridiculous chocolate cake and wouldn’t shut up about the proper way to appreciate dessert. Back when this was just an arrangement.
Before I started caring.
What am I doing?
This isn’t me. I don’t pine. I don’t wait around. I’m Naomi Smith. I make million-dollar decisions and keep my shit together.
Except when it comes to Brandon Milton.
The leather seat creaks as I shift, my dress too tight, the restaurant too warm. Every bite I’ve managed to keep down in this place flashes through my mind—the first tentative forkful of pasta, that damn half-eaten burger.
Each meal a victory. Each moment stored away like treasure.
Now what? Back to salads and bathroom breaks? Back to avoiding mirrors? Back to?—
“You still there?” Brandon’s voice cuts through my spiral.
I press my palm flat against the cool table surface. “I was just hungry.”
Please say something. Call my bullshit.
“Okay.” His voice is soft, defeated. “Have a nice dinner.”
“Wait! I—” My throat closes around everything I want to say.