Page 121 of Merry Fake Bride

Withdrawn.

She kept her distance from me even as I spent a few minutes talking to her father about my plans over Christmas.

So I invited her to dinner, hoping the privacy will give us a moment to talk.

She’s late.

None of my texts have been answered either.

It’s impossible to stop my mind from running.

Maybe that night wasn’t amazing for her.

Did I push her too far?

Was I too rough?

Too demanding?

Should I have done less?

While everything felt perfect in the moment, something is clearly off.

The worry sits like an unsettled weight in my gut, rolling back and forth each time I shift my stance in the chair with my eyes glued to the door.

Still no Devon.

No text either.

Outside, my car sits across the street and I’m hyper-aware that Martin can see me sitting here by myself.

It amplifies the feelings of being pathetic so I distract myself with the menu until the door creaks and Devon finally arrives.

But she doesn’t look like herself.

Her hair is scraped back from her face into a messy ponytail that gathers in the hood of her sweater.

Her bulky clothes mostly hide her from view, and she hurries up to the table and takes her seat like she’s got somewhere to be immediately after this.

There’s no smile, no warmth, and certainly no touch.

“Sorry I’m late,” Devon says, perching on the chair. “Busy day.”

“You don’t need to apologize for that.”

Lowering the menu, my head tilts.

How do I approach this without scaring her away?

How do I stop my anxieties from invading the logical reasons that something has changed with her in the days we’ve been apart?

“How are you?”

“I’m good. You?” She picks up the water glass and gulps down a few mouthfuls.

“I’m fine. Work is understandably hectic. A lot of unhappy people at the closure of the apartment deal, but something I’m happy to deal with.”

“Good. Good.”