When we get to Piazza, Nate pulls into a spot at the end of the parking lot, as far as he can get from the restaurant. He does that all the time. There are plenty of parking spots right next to the door, and yet he parks half a mile away.
“Can you park a little closer?” I say.
He throws the car into park and frowns at me. “What are you talking about? I’m already parked.”
“Right, but there are other spots that are closer.”
“You really want me to take my car out of the spot and then move to a different spot, like, ten feet away?”
“It’s not ten feet. And you’re not wearing four-inch heels.”
His eyes flicker down to my Louis Vuitton pumps. “Well, who told you to wear those anyway?” He narrows his eyes. “Are those new? They look expensive.”
“I’ve had them for ages. I wore them for my birthday last year.” I can’t help but think to myself that Jay would recognize these shoes.
“Yeah, right,” he mutters under his breath.
Nate climbs out of the car, and I hurry after him, although it’s hard to keep up in these shoes. They are absolutely gorgeous, but nobody is going to argue that they’re comfortable. “What is that supposed to mean?”
He doesn’t slow down to give me a chance to keep up. “I mean, we’ll see how new they are when we get the credit card bill, won’t we?”
I want to tell him how unfair that is, but the truth is, the credit card will have a few surprises on it for him. I hate that he is the one who always pays it. It’s this habit we got into years ago. When we got married, all our money was pooled together. I can’t do anything or buy anything without him knowing about it.
Me telling him that I want my own credit card and my own bank account might not be a step in the right direction for our marriage. Then again, he doesn’t seem to care about these things as much as he used to. When I would go out without him, he used to ask me so many questions about where I was going and what I would be doing, and now it’s like he doesn’t care at all. He’s just glad I’m out of the house.
Nate at least holds the door open for me when we get to the restaurant. I’ve already decided I’m going to get the most decadent dessert on the menu. I deserve one treat today, considering the only present I’ve received the entire day from my birthday is a key chain from Shelby that she got in Cape Cod.
“Table for two,” Nate tells the hostess. She’s a busty blond in her twenties, and I’m glad to see at the very least he isn’t staring at her breasts.
“It’s my birthday,” I blurt out.
I don’t know why I said that. Nate looks slightly mortified, but I’ve only got a few hours left of this day, and I just want somebody to acknowledge that it’s special for me. But it’s not that gratifying when the hostess flashes me a quick smile, says happy birthday, and then leads us to the same crappy table we were going to get anyway. She doesn’t take us to some special birthday table covered with streamers, not that I was expecting anything like that.
Just as we are settling into our seats, Nate stiffens. He’s looking at something across the dining area, his brown eyes widening.
“What’s wrong?” I ask him. “What are you looking at?”
“What? Nothing.”
He was definitely looking at something, although he doesn’t want to tell me. Did he see one of the employees come out of the bathroom without washing his hands? Did he spot a pair of shoes that I purchased without his consent?
“It’s one of my students,” he finally says. “Addie Severson. She must be eating with her mother.”
Now it’s my turn to go as rigid as a board. “I didn’t realize Addie was in your class.”
“Yes. Last period.”
I don’t know why the idea of Addie being in Nate’s class makes me uneasy. I can’t help but think of Art Tuttle’s warning when we were at the supermarket. That girl is not well.
“She’s really talented,” he says. “She could be a great poet someday.”
“That’s not a very practical career.”
Nate’s face falls. He looks hurt by my comment, but what does he expect? Being a poet is not a practical career aspiration.
“I just think it’s something she might enjoy,” he says. “She has a lyrical mind. And her favorite poet is also Poe, although she’s partial to ‘Annabel Lee.’”
One thing I do know about my husband is that his favorite poet is Edgar Allan Poe, and he loves “The Raven.” If I were making a list of five important facts about Nathaniel Bennett, that would top the list.