“We’ll have a bottle of Louis Roederer Cristal, thank you.” My tone is a bit too curt, but I try to save it with a wide, beaming smile.
She simply smiles back and nods. “Of course. I’ll get that for you right away.”
When my attention falls back on Oliver, his smile has turned slightly uncomfortable.
“What?” I say as I pick up the menu.
“I’m sober now … remember?”
Shit.It did slip my mind. Guilt prickles my nape, but I don’t let it show. I shrug.
“I’ll drink it all myself then.” My voice is dry and callous.
Unfortunately for me, my lingering feelings for him have my empathy for his veryrealaddiction begin to filter through the cracks of the wall I’ve put up.
“Will it bother you?” My tone is much softer this time.
His smile is genuine as he shakes his head, and my heart thaws a thin layer of ice.
“Besides, I need to get used to it, especially in a place like LA.”
“Yeah, well,” I say before taking a sip of water. “You know you’re notlegallybound to attend every Hollywood party you’re invited to.”
He leans into his chair, his laugh smooth and velvety. “Touché.” He pins me with his stare. “Might I remind you who I attended most of those parties with?”
Despite myself, I laugh at his slight dig, and he does too. There’s a certain ease that settles between us, only possible because of all our shared memories.
The majority of them were good.
And that’s what hurts the most.
My smile slowly fades as we stare at one another. His expression turns serious, too, seemingly guessing where my mind went. I hate that I can see real pain in his eyes. I hate that he’s only human. With flaws, and addictions, and excuses, and propensity for fucking up. I hate that I once loved him. And I hate that I’m not sure if that love is entirely gone in the first place.
The server returns with the bottle ofLouis Roederer and a champagne stand chilled with ice that she carefully places beside the table without a sound.
We fall silent, the tense moment not gone but lingering here with us, unwilling to dissipate. I wordlessly thank the server as she opens the bottle and then gently correct her when she places two flutes down.
“Just one, thank you.”
She doesn’t skip a beat and pours me a glass before swiping the second flute off the table and stepping away.
It’s finally just us two again, and the tension has turned into this anthropomorphic entity with agency and a will all to itself. It sits between us on the table, cross-legged and patient, ready to wait all evening for us to speak what’s actually on our minds.
It’s Oliver who first takes pity on it.
“I’m so fucking sorry, Connie.”
Melancholy turns to anger, and I cross my arms.
“You’ve said that already.”
“I don’t know how I’ll ever forgive myself.”
“So don’t.” I lift the flute to my lips but lash out a few more choice words before taking a sip. “You can carry that guilt for the rest of your life for all I care.”
He says nothing. Just nods. It’s barely visible, as if silently agreeing with what I’ve just said.
“You were the best thing that ever happened to me.”
