Tucked below street level in an old stone building on St. Paul Street, its warmth feels like an embrace the moment you step inside.
The glow from the low lights, the scent of roasted garlic and slow-simmered sauce, the best pasta in the city—this is where I come when I need to feel held by the world.
I’ve loved this place for years.
Whether I order their goat cheese ravioli or their pappardelle with lamb ragu (always with a glass of Barolo), every bite tastes like something remembered, not discovered.
I tried to get Aiden here several times, but it never happened. He was too busy. Too booked with work dinners. Too tired. Too…not with me.
Let go of the past, Mia. Try and live in the now. He brought you to your favorite restaurant. He’s making an effort. Enjoy it.
“You always talked about their goat cheese ravioli,” he says as the hostess leads us to a table.
I smile. It takes effort.
I want to scream, “Too little, too late,” but it would be a lie. Iamtouched that he brought me here. Iampleased he’s giving me so much of his attention.
I am angry that it took me leaving, it took us getting divorced, for him to get here.
If we ever reconcile, will this become the game plan? Every time he screws up, I have to dish out divorce papers?
Or maybe you could talk to him, Mia, and not wait in seething silence for six years?
He holds my chair and I sit. Aiden has always been a gentleman. But then he pulls outDiana’schair for her as well.
I want to bang my head against the table, just to stop thinking. But I can’t. The thoughts keep coming. And with them, the ache sharpens. I’m already hurting, already drowning in it, but I keep pouring more in—like I deserve it.
I know why.
I feel guilty, ashamed, and scared for saying yes to this damn date. For giving him this chance. For letting him make me hope.
I feel like I’ve betrayed myself. Like I have no self-worth left.
What’s next? He’ll say, ‘Come home,’ and I’ll go—and then what? Back to the cold silences?
Back to his family that treats me like I don’t belong?
Back to being invisible?
Forgotten?
My breath shudders out of me like something cracked open.
“Baby.” His hand finds mine, warm, steady. His eyes search my face. “Tell me what’s going on in your head.”
Tears rise fast. I blink them back, shake my head.
I can’t tell him. I don’t want to give him more pieces of me to break.
“Please, Mia.” He squeezes my hand, not letting go.
I stare down at the pristine white tablecloth, my voice barely audible.
“I hate that you’re doing all of this now—after the divorce papers were signed. That when it actually mattered, when I was still yours, you didn’t respect me enough to eventry. And I hate that I’m sitting here with you, because it makes me feel like I’ve lost respect for myself.”
My throat burns as I continue, spilling the poison inside of me. “I hate myself and you, and…everything inside me feels like a bleeding wound because of what you did.”
The words sit between us like broken glass.
