It’s not like you to be late.
The host with big dark eyes and chiseled features, dressed impeccably in triple black, is smiling, and I can see in his face that the dress I’m wearing—new, a rare frivolous purchase—was the right choice, highlighting my cleavage and brightening my eyes.
“You’re the first to arrive. Can I show you to your table?”
“Yes, please.”
His eyes linger.
I’m nothing special to look at. I mean, I’m okay. But I’m not in love with my legs. And my hair has a life of its own when it rains. I haven’t mastered the whole makeup thing. In a city of beautiful, stylish, glamorous women, I usually have a whole urban warrior look going, mainly jeans and leather jackets, T-shirts, and Doc Martens. I’m not one to thread or wax, pluck and manicure, starve and preen. A natural woman, you said. Rare these days. I took it as a compliment.
But this dress, a royal blue wrap, clinging, long, really highlights my assets.
Why am I dressing up for tonight? I don’t know.
If he’s going to break up with you, at least he’ll see what he’s missing, said Robin unhelpfully as I got ready. She’d lounged on my bed, just as she always has—at ease, sure of herself, ready for anything.
At the table, I look at the menu.
Wow.
Very pricey.
You always pick up the check. Which at first, I didn’t feel comfortable with. We struggled over the bill. I’m old school, you told me. At dinner, the guy pays. It’s just gross if you don’t. But I grew to love this about you. Your generosity. Your kindness. You give without asking anything in return.
I keep glancing at that door when it opens—a young couple laughing, an older gentleman with a baritone voice. I’m hungry—of course. The waitress comes to ask if I’d like a drink. But I’ll wait for you. Those butterflies, they’ve turned into crows.
Moments from last night keep coming back to me.
You’ve been through so much, you said, your voice heavy with compassion. You’re a survivor.
There’s more. Layers. There’s always more to us than what we say and show. But I have shared everything I can. I am exposed enough.
So, after I got your text, I zipped out to a boutique I love and bought a new dress. Retail therapy, not usually my thing. I can see the appeal though, a new skin I’ve slipped into. Something bright and fresh.
The door opens and a tall, stunningly chic woman with dark skin and a magnificent black wrap breezes in. She sits at the bar, is joined shortly by two Asian men in crisp charcoal gray suits. They lean into each other, conversation low and intense.
You won’t be long, I tell myself. You’re on your way.
White tablecloth.
Orchids in a vase.
The low hum of voices, flute music. I wait.
It’s half past the hour. Definitely not like you.
Finally, I dig my phone from my bag.
Oh.
Three missed calls. I try to call you back, but there’s no answer. An unpleasant throb in my center. Fear pulses. I know that bad things can sneak up on you. One moment life seems solid enough, predictable, and the next your whole world gets pulled out from under you and you’re floating in space. Zero gravity.
I text: Is something wrong? I tried to call you back.
A few more minutes pass. People enjoy their meals, oblivious to the thumping of my heart. My waitress keeps glancing over at me. Other servers zip past, carrying trays of food—the aroma is heavenly, but it barely reaches me.
Finally, after ten more minutes pass, and you don’t call, don’t answer my calls or texts, I gather my things.
You’re not coming.
Something is wrong.
five
Rising, I draw looks, leaving my sweating water glass, dropping my crumpled napkin on the table. The back of my throat is tight, heat rising to my cheeks. Shame. It lives in the pit of my stomach, curled like a snake, waiting to strike and sink its fangs.
It was too soon to have told you. We didn’t know each other well enough. I have buried my ugly past for a reason. It was years before I told Jax. And even she doesn’t know all of it.
But you.
Isn’t that what love is? We want to show ourselves, don’t we? Hoping against hope that when we do, we will be loved for exactly who we are, not who we were expected to be.
“There’s been an emergency,” I say to the waitress who comes to see what’s wrong, why I’m leaving. “I’m so sorry.”
The waitress, the host, they’re so kind and accommodating. Which hurts. Kindness sometimes hurts me. I can’t explain that.