There’s a pause. Not uncomfortable exactly, but weighted. Like we’re both aware that we’re dancing around something bigger.
“Can I askyousomething now?” I venture.
“Fair’s fair.”
“How areyou?” I immediately want to take it back. Too direct. Too personal. But it’s out there now, hovering between us. “I mean. About your wife. I never... never told you how sorry I was to hear the news.”
Yeah, sorry. But I also did a little tap-dance inside when I originally heard about it some two years ago. Does that make me a bad person?
Yes, it definitely does.
Marco’s expression doesn’t change much, but something shifts behind his eyes. He picks up his beer, takes a drink, sets it down with deliberate care.
“Most people don’t ask that,” he says finally. “They say sorry and then change the subject as fast as possible.”
“I can change the subject if you want.”
“No.” He shakes his head. “No, it’s okay. The truth is I don’t know how I am. Some days I’m fine. Some days I’m drowning in logistics and schedules and making sure my daughter doesn’t fall apart.” He pauses, and when he speaks again his voice is quieter. Careful. “I thought I was done feelinganything. And then lately I want things again. And it... it feels somehow...wrong.”
My heart does something complicated in my chest. There’s so much in those few sentences. Pain and guilt and something that looks almost like hope, but the kind of hope that scares you.
“What kind of things?” I ask, even though I’m not sure I should.
He looks at me. Really looks at me. And I feel that gaze like a physical touch, traveling over my face, my hair, my mouth. Almost predatory.
And I’m eating up every second of it.
“Things I shouldn’t want,” he says.
Oh.
Oh.
He’s talking about me.
No. He can’t be.
That’s insane.
I’m projecting.
I’m definitely projecting.
He’s probably talking about wanting to feel happiness again or wanting to date or wanting literally anything that isn’t about the curvy ex-influencer sitting across from him making everything awkward.
But the way he’s looking at me suggests maybe I’m not projecting. That maybe...
“I get that,” I hear myself say. My voice sounds weirdly normal considering my brain is currently melting. “Wanting things that feel wrong. Or impossible.”
“What doyouwant?” Marco asks, and it sounds like he actually cares about the answer.
What do I want? World peace. Financial security. For the algorithm to love me again. For my thighs tostop touching. For this man to stop looking at me like I’m something he actually sees.
“I want to not feel like a failure,” I say instead, surprised by my own honesty. “I had this whole career. This whole identity built on views and engagement and brand deals. And then it just vanished. The algorithm changed or I changed or the world changed. And suddenly I’m nobody.”
“You’re not nobody.”
“Says the man who owns multiple successful restaurants.” I blink away a sudden rush of tears.
