Neither of them will look at me when we climb into the car – Tripp behind the wheel and Julia taking a seat in the back, rather than sitting shot gun – nor while we’re on the road.
Despite the secretive and all-knowing smiles that they throw at each other in the rear view, a feeling of unease settles into a pit in my stomach while we drive.
My skin itches beneath my shirt, where the seat belt has me trapped. My throat feels tight, and I find myself looking out of the window, almost in search of an escape. My hand wraps around the handle of the door and I shift my hips in my seat.
“Quit wiggling,” Tripp tells me, dropping a hand to rest at my inner thigh.
I rest my own on top of it, tracing the A on his pinkie finger, the first letter of the word ‘apostate’ spelled out between the pinkie and index fingers on each hand. A glance at his profile offers view of the corner of his mouth fighting not to tug upward.
What the hell is he so excited about?
Neither of them offer me any further insight as to what I should expect while we ride to the restaurant. Every question that I ask is dodged, every guess that I make dismissed.
They’re both in such high spirits, and I should be, too; but I’ve been here before. It all feels too good, too peaceful. I’ve settled in too much, and now something has to give. But what that something is, I can’t place.
The restaurant’s parking lot is packed when we finally roll into it, so Tripp drops us near the door before trying to find a place to park the car. Julia’s fingers wrap into my own as we stepinside, met with a long line of people waiting near the host stand to be seated.
There have to be twenty groups of people waiting, each person dressed in their nicest suits and dresses. I don’t see a single t-shirt or pair of jeans, and there aren’t any children around us. Conversation is quiet and respectful, but there are so many people here that even the softest spoken words pile onto one another to make it loud.
“This is insane,” I comment. “It’ll be a two-hour wait, at least.”
“No, it won’t” Jules argues with a brilliant, teasing grin.
My brow pinches as she drags me toward the young woman standing behind the station to tell her that the Montgomery party is here to claim our table.
“Tripp got a new reservation this morning,” she tells me. “He was only asking you to pick somewhere to eat in case he needed to cancel it.”
As Tripp rejoins us, we’re led through a set of white double doors and into the warm evening air, where a small selection of tables wait. Each of them are topped with a crisp white table cloth and a cluster of small candles to offer ambiance, complimented by wooden chairs which surround them.
It isn’t long after we’re seated that our table is lined with appetizers and a glass of wine sits in front of each of us. I scan the plates of bruschetta, antipasto, breads topped with various cheeses, racking up the bill in my mind.
These two were fighting over fifteen bucks no more than six months ago, and now, here they are, happily ordering what feels like one of everything without a second thought.
My heart plummets in my chest as a realization hits me.
“You sold the shop.”
Resting his glass onto the table, Tripp’s head cocks to the side, his face pinching.
“Yeah, Schepp, I sold the shop and didn’t tell you,” he teases, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Of course I didn’t sell.”
“It’s your birthday,” Julia offers with a warm smile, the statement meant to shut me up, to keep me from asking any further questions.
For a while, I let it do exactly that.
I let myself enjoy the wine and the food, both of which are even better than I’d expected, but that little voice in the back of my mind nags at me. Something is off, tonight. I can’t place it, but I can’t shake it, either.
‘And that’s your problem, Connie,’my sister would tell me.‘You can’t just accept a good thing for what it is.’
Even in my own thoughts, that little twerp is right.
Appetizers and entrées fly off of our plates, and by the time we place our dessert orders, I feel like I need to unbutton my slacks to make room for it. Even still, when the decadent sweets are placed in front of us, I tuck into them.
My anxious mind would tell me that with my favorite foods and sweet desserts, the two of them have lulled me into a false sense of security. It might tell me that this is how prey animals fall victim to the predators who hunt them.
It tries, as they exchange cautious glances, but I stifle its voice with other bite of limoncello sponge cake.
“Listen,” Tripp finally says with a clearing of his throat. “We know we can’t do anything on paper, but in all of the ways that actually fucking mean something, you’re part of our family.”
