I've been thinking about Tuesday night constantly.
Days of replaying every moment in my mind with obsessive detail. The poker game and her dramatic entrance. That barely-there red dress. The car and what happened in the backseat. The way she just walked away afterward like it meant absolutely nothing.
Like it was nothing at all.
Tonight, I'm getting answers. No more games, no more deflection. We're going to talk about this like adults.
I ordered dinner from Trattoria Centrale—nothing particularly fancy, just good, honest food that doesn't require me to spend hours cooking. Pasta, a good bottle of wine, tiramisu for dessert. We're eating here at my place, in my apartment, where we can actually have a real conversation without interruptions or drivers or privacy partitions.
She arrives at exactly seven o'clock. For once in her life, she's actually on time.
She's wearing jeans and a soft sweater, casual and comfortable. Her dark hair is down, falling loose around her shoulders. She looks beautiful and completely normal, which somehow makes me more nervous than if she'd shown up in something outrageous.
"Hi!" She kisses my cheek in greeting, warm and familiar. "Something smells amazing in here."
"I ordered from Trattoria Centrale."
"Oh, I love that place! Their carbonara is incredible." She sets down her bag—a large canvas tote that looks surprisingly heavy. "Should I open the wine? I'm pretty good at it."
"Sure, go ahead."
She busies herself with the wine while I plate the food. Carbonara for her, amatriciana for me. Simple dishes, classic preparations, nothing complicated.
We sit at my dining table across from each other. She takes a bite of her pasta, makes an appreciative sound that makes my stomach tighten.
"This is absolutely delicious."
"It's good, right?" I'm stalling, I know I am. "They use guanciale from this specific farm in Umbria that—"
"Santo." She sets down her fork and looks at me directly. "You're nervous about something."
"I'm not nervous." The denial is automatic.
"You're talking about guanciale sourcing." She smiles knowingly. "You only talk about food in excessive detail when you're avoiding something. What's wrong?"
She's right. Damn it, she's absolutely right.
"Fine. I want to talk about Tuesday night. About what happened."
"The poker game?" She takes another bite, seemingly unconcerned. "I already apologized for interrupting. I know it was inappropriate."
"Not the poker game itself. After that. What happened after."
"After?" She tilts her head, looking genuinely confused. Or expertly pretending to be confused. I can't tell anymore.
"In the car, Liana. What happened in the car."
"Oh!" Her cheeks flush with a delicate pink color. "Right. That."
"Yes. That." I lean back in my chair, watching her carefully. "You left afterward. Just walked away like it was nothing."
"I had volunteering in the morning. Dorothy depends on me."
"That's not why you left, and we both know it."
She's quiet for a moment, studying her pasta like it contains the secrets of the universe. "What do you want me to say?"
"I want you to tell me what that was. What we're doing here. What this is between us."
