Meanwhile, I’m overthinking everything. Am I holding my fork weird? Did I laugh too long at Sam’s story? Should I compliment James’s shirt? Why do his cheekbones look like they could cut glass? Why do I suddenly feel like I’ve turned up at the Hunger Games dinner table unarmed?
Then Sam casually drops a name. “Chris would’ve loved this wine.”
I blink. “Who’s Chris?”
Sam grins. “Pete’s ex.”
The air shifts. Pete stares at his plate. James’ jaw tightens.
“Oh,” I say, brightly, like a man who has just trodden on a rake.
Chris.
The name hangs in the air like someone’s just announced they’ve found a body in the garden. I try to keep my face neutral, but inside my brain is running a full background check on this mystery man.
Chris. Who is Chris? How serious was Chris? Is Chris hotter than me? Probably. Chris sounds like the kind of guy who runs marathons for fun and save kittens from burning buildings. Is he taller? Funnier? Can he eat soup without it dribbling down his chin?
I glance at Pete, but he’s suddenly fascinated by his plate, and James’s jaw is tight enough to crack a walnut. Which, of course, sends me spiralling further. Why do they both look like someone’s just mentioned Voldemort? Was ChrisThe One That Got Away? The Big Love? Am I sitting in Chris’s chair right now? Eating off Chris’s plates?
I take a sip of wine, mostly to keep my mouth busy so I don’t accidentally blurt out “So how often do you still think about him?” like a man auditioning for an emotional breakdown.
“Yeah, this is some great wine. We need to get some more of this,” Sam says, taking another big slurp.
I take a slurp of mine.
Towards the end of the meal, I excuse myself to the bathroom. I need a break.
The house is vast, corridors stretching out like arteries. The bathroom itself is pristine, all marble and chrome, the kind of place you’re afraid to exhale in case you fog the mirrors. I stare at myself in the sink.
What am I doing here? Craig was right—it’s quick. Too quick. And James… something about him sets my skin on edge. Cold, clipped, brooding. Pete shrinks in his presence, like sunlight dulled under heavy clouds.
But then I think of Pete’s laugh, the way he looked at me by the harbourside, the warmth I feel around him. That’s real. Isn’t it?
I splash water on my face, breathe, and steel myself to go back.
On the way down the hall, I hear voices. Muffled, but distinct.
James. Low, dangerous. “…this was a fucking stupid idea.”
Pete. Softer, placating. “I wasn’t—”
“You just want to humiliate me.”
I stop, frozen in place. I back against the wall and listen.
“James, please, just give him a chance—”
There’s a bang, like something being slammed up against the wall, followed by silence.
My stomach twists.
I freeze.
I should step in like Pete’s knight in shining armour, but I don’t. I’m just solid like a statue.
Useless.
After a moment of pausing, I step back into the dining room, heart hammering. Sam looks up with a knowing smile. Pete follows a moment later, smile pasted on like wallpaper, eyes down. James strolls in last, face red, yet untouched. Our eyes don’t meet for the rest of the night.
