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It’s all there in the white-knuckled grip on the bottle. The restaurant dream. His father’s death. The empty space where his passion used to be.
“Anyway,” he says, voice too bright, too forced. “Did they forget your salad?”
“You miss it, don’t you?”
He freezes for a second too long before shrugging it off. “Miss what?”
“Cooking,” I say. “Are you really going to sell it?”
“You heard everything that morning. With Elijah.”
“I did. And I think you’re lying to yourself.” I straighten. “That restaurant was your dream.”
“Was.” He emphasizes the word. “Past tense. Everything’s fine now. The company’s doing well. I’m doing well.” His lips quirk. “Even we’re doing well, aren’t we?”
His words hit something raw inside me. Are we doing well? This thing between us feels like walking on a tightrope, one wrong move, and we both fall.
I push my plate aside. “Don’t use us as an excuse.”
“An excuse for what?”
“For giving up.”
His eyes flash like a storm brewing beneath calm waters. “You think I’m giving up?”
“Aren’t you? The Brandon I knew in college would never?—”
“The Brandon you knew in college was a naive idiot who thought he could change the world with a fucking spatula.” He drains his wine glass. “Reality check, cupcake. Sometimes, dreams are just that. Dreams.”
How did I miss it? I’ve been so wrapped up in my mess that I didn’t see him drowning. Some girlfriend I am.
Fake girlfriend. This isn’t real. This shouldn’t be my problem.
But the hurt in his eyes? That raw pain?
“Don’t look at me like that,” he says.
“Like what?”
“Like you pity me.”
“I don’t pity you.” My fingers trace the condensation on my water glass. “You’re allowed to want things. To have dreams.”
He laughs, but it’s bitter and hollow, echoing with something deep inside him that he won’t let surface. “Dreams don’t work in my world.”
The defeat in his voice… it isn’t just about cooking. It is deeper, rawer.
Like watching someone give up on themselves.
I know that feeling. Live it every day when I look in the mirror and see the girl who kept silent.
But Brandon… he doesn’t deserve that kind of pain. His passion for cooking was beautiful. Real.
“Neither does being fucking miserable,” I say. “You deserve?—”
“You really want to go there?” His eyes snap to mine, blazing. “Let’s talk about how you haven’t touched your food since that first half. How your hand keeps twitching toward your throat. Starving yourself. Punishing yourself every second of the day. Isn’t that miserable, too?”
I recoil, nausea rising. “Fuck you.”