“But you take her to the vet?—”
I put a hand on Evan’s shoulder, and he shuts up. Millie takes Manon to the vet at least twice a month. Something’s always wrong with her. At least—according to Millie.
I speak up. “Evan and I have a dinner reservation. Can we talk about this another time?”
She seems to compose her face and takes a small step backward. “What time will you be home?”
“A couple of hours.”
“Fine. I’ll come by then.”
“Okay.” I turn Evan around.
“I’m not paying for her dog’s C-section,” Evan says. “What kind of fucking dog needs a C-section anyway.”
“French Bulldogs!” Millie half shouts. “Google it.”
She slams her door, startling both of us.
Ironically, as we’re leaving the building, Melvin is on his way in with the retired couple who live downstairs. Evan gestures at him. “Look at him. He’s got ten times as much energy as Apollo. Apollo’s never even humped my leg. Besides, if he were trying anything with Manon, we would’ve heard something. He’shung. That little dog would have gotten someone’s attention if he tried anything on her.”
“The music was loud that night.”
“Your friends were loud.”
“They’re your friends, too.”
“Sort of,” Evan grumbles. “Millie needs another fucking hobby.”
“I think she already has a lot of hobbies.”
“Then she needs a tranquilizer.”
I laugh at that.
It’s mild out tonight, especially for February. I’m wearing a jacket, but I don’t need it. I run warm in general, and the thermal shirt I have on beneath my flannel is more than enough. We end the conversation about Manon’s baby daddy and finish the walk to the restaurant in silence.
“The suspense is killing me, you know?” Evan finally says when we get there.
“It’s not really that big of a deal,” I mumble. “I thought you wanted to try this place.”
“I thoughtyoumight want to,” he says.
I frown, trying to puzzle that out. “Why?”
“Because you like food?”
Foodisone of my interests. I like to cook. I like challenging myself with new textures and flavors, and I like feeding people. It’s far easier than trying to have a conversation, and it keeps me busy when I’ve run out of things to do. Restaurants, however, take all the easy parts away from me, forcing me to sit face to face with someone and talk.
Evan opens the restaurant door, and I wait for him to walk in, but he’s looking at me, not moving. “Go ahead,” he says.
He follows me inside and lets the host know we have a reservation. Once we’re seated, I realize Evan is still staring at me. When I pick up the menu, he reaches across the table and gently pushes it down, forcing me to look up at him.
“We’re here,” he says. “Please tell me what’s going on. I’ve been stressing about this since Monday morning.”
“Oh.”
Causing him stress wasn’t my intention. I swallow hard, trying to convince myself that this will be fine. It’s not like I’m asking him to pay for a veterinary surgery. He’ll probably think I’m ridiculous for dragging him out to dinner to tell him what I have to say.
