We spend a few more hours together before we both have to leave. And a small piece of me feels like it’s been stitched up by the time I fall into bed.
37
CONNIE
I’m readying myself to leave the theatre, sliding my laptop into my purse when my phone buzzes on my office desk. After a week of silence, I don’t expect it to be Huxley. Even though he hasn’t posted any more incriminating pictures since Saturday, I’m now assuming he’s moved on to the next flavor of the month.
And I pretend not to care.
I also pretend my meltdown on Monday never happened. It’s so embarrassing to recall that I’m actively trying to gaslight myself into thinking I made the whole thing up.
That wasn’t me. You’ve got the wrong girl.
Nothing to see here.
But the way my heart pinches when I see Oliver’s name on my phone screen and not Huxley’s proves that there’s still a small piece of me holding on to hope. And it tastes bittersweet on my tongue.
Plans tonight? Let me take you out.
I sneer at his casual message. As if I haven’t ignored him all week. The last time we spoke was at that diner last Friday. But it hasn’t been without incessant effort to link up on his part.
Typically, I’d sigh loudly and move on with my day, but today, I hesitate. I’m not sure what about this specific moment has me reconsidering my usual M.O.
Maybe it’s the confusing waft of loneliness stinking up my office. Or the lasso of nostalgia tugging on my bruised heart as I consider thatmaybe,potentially, I should let him plead his case again. My long exhale sounds like defeat as I finally decide to reply this time.
Fine. Harvest. 8 pm
I deliberately arriveat the restaurant fifteen minutes late. Oliver begged to pick me up at the hotel, but I still refuse to let him know where I’m staying.
Harvest is a Michelin-starred restaurant known for using only local ingredients, and I specifically chose it for its respect for their guests’ privacy. There’s far less of a chance for enamored fans to flock to our table than, say, at the Olive Garden. Not that Oliver would be caught dead eating in a chain restaurant—or eating carbs for that matter.
I spot his black sculpted hair and polished but casual outfit before I even walk up to the maître d’. I carefully watch him from across the room, busy flashing his Hollywood smile to the server as she tops off his water. He looks infuriatingly beautiful, even now when the memories of his affairs should make him look repulsive.
I quickly fix my expression from the bitterness currentlyburning my cheeks to effortlessly social as I smile at the maître d’ and point towards my ex.
“Mr. Campisi is expecting me.”
“Yes, of course, miss, come right in,” he replies with a small nod and wide smile.
I thank him and give him my coat before walking into the dining room. Harvest has quite the industrial decor, with open ceilings and uncovered beams. It would feel impersonal if the food and service wasn’t so damn impressive.
When Oliver finally sees me walk up to the table, he stands up to greet me. He tries to kiss my cheek, but I stop him with two manicured fingers to the chest. He steps back with a smile as if he thinks I’m just playing coy.
“You look drop-dead gorgeous, as always,” he says while pulling out my chair. “Is that Prada?”
He’s referring to my black long-sleeved dress.
“Yves Saint Laurent,” I respond dryly. “Vintage.”
He sits down in front of me and nods thoughtfully as if what I just said was some kind of philosophical musing that requires some further internal reflection.
“Well, it looks great on you — you’ve always had an eye for that kind of stuff.”
Every word out of his mouth is already annoying me, and I feel my frustration and disdain for him spike.
This was a bad idea.
Luckily, our server reappears to fill my water glass, and I don’t even give her a chance to ask if I’d like anything before I order some much-needed alcohol.
