Giacomo doesn’t notice the difference.
“We need to finalize the guest list,” he says, sipping his wine. “The invitations go out next week. Everyone is talking about the wedding.”
I nod, cutting into a salad I’m not hungry for. “I’ll look at it tonight. I also need to contact my mother and make sure she goes for her dress fitting.”
He waves me off. “Yes, and make sure she fixes her hair. Her roots are beginning to show, and I don’t think that would be ideal for the pictures.”
My fork hits my plate a little too hard when he says that. But I do my best not to react. I lift my head, meet his eyes, and force a polite smile.
“Of course.” If I could fling this fork at his face, I would. “How was your day?” I need a quick and easy change of subject.
“It was good. I just locked in a new project with one of my contacts in China.” There’s a glint in his eyes that throws me for a second. “How was your day?”
I swallow my lettuce. “It was good. I had a meeting with the wedding planner, and then I went for a run.”
“How’s the rest of the planning going?”
“It’s fine. Still a lot to get done, but it’s all coming together.”
His eyes narrow slightly. “Just ‘fine?’”
Before I can answer, the waiter returns with a basket of bread.
“Here you go, ma’am.” He smiles and sets the basket down. “I added in some gluten-free options just in case.”
“Thank you so much,” I glance down at his name badge, “Marcus.”
I hear Giacomo clear his throat, and I tear my eyes away from Marcus to look at him. His jaw is locked in place, and his hands are balled into fists around his cutlery.
Marcus doesn’t seem to catch the shift in energy. He walks away from the table, leaving me with the bubbling wrath of my fiancé.
No. I can’t deal with this right now.
I place my napkin on my lap and excuse myself quickly before he has a chance to blow a gasket. “I’m going to the restroom.”
Thankfully, he doesn’t say anything, and I get up in peace. I have no idea what that look he gave me was about, but I want nothing to do with whatever narrative he’s cooking up in his head.
The moment I step into the ladies’ room, I finally exhale.
My hands shake as I brace myself against the sink. I don’t even know what I’m looking at in the mirror anymore. The fear permeating my pupils is unsettling. My reflection feels like a stranger wearing my skin.
“Breathe, Bea. Breathe.” I can feel the panic creeping in, tightening its grip. I hold onto the cool stone of the basin.
My phone buzzes in my bag, and I lazily take it out. I breathe a little easier when my mother’s name flashes across the screen.
I know whenever she texts me there has to be some good news.
Mama:Hey baby, just got approved to go to level 2 of rehab. Getting stronger every day.
My heart warms. She has no idea just how much these messages heal me. It’s in moments like this, moments where everything feels heavy and fragile, that I remember why I endure all of this.
For her.
I go to reply to the message, but then the door bursts open.
Giacomo storms in, nostrils flared.
“Giacomo?” My voice jumps. “This is the women’s bathroom—what are you doing?”
