The server arrived to take our drink orders, giving us both a moment to breathe. Then he left again, and we sat in a few moments of awkward silence.
“So, what are you doing with yourself these days?” I immediately regretted the question. Asking about his days would mean hearing about his life now—a life I wasn’t part of. It would mean learning if there was someone else cooking him dinner, someone else’s name in his phone contacts. I wasn’t ready for that.
“Oh, you know,” he said vaguely. “This and that.”
I didn’t push.
We fell silent as we studied our menus, the conversation hovering in that polite space between strangers and people who once knew every inch of each other’s bodies. No talk of the past. No mention of the future. Just two people sharing a meal, pretending we hadn’t once shared everything.
“What are you going to get?” I kept my eyes fixed on the menu. Food was safe territory. We both spoke that language fluently, even when every other conversation felt like navigating a minefield.
Rhett studied the menu, brow furrowed in concentration. “I’m thinking the blackened redfish with crawfish étouffée.” He glanced up. “Though I bet you’re eyeing the truffle and wild mushroom risotto with the herb-crusted lamb. Chef Gianni’s signature dish.”
I blinked, lowering my menu. That was exactly what I’d been considering.
“How did you know that?”
“You sent that feature on him from Southern Gourmet in one of your letters on my last deployment.” He paused. “Well, the one before this last one. You said it was somewhere you wanted to try when I got home, because the combination of earthy and savory was your idea of culinary heaven.”
It had been one of the ways I’d tried to keep his spirits up while we’d been apart. Giving us both something to look forward to when he came home. Except we’d never taken any of those trips, never visited any of the restaurants. We’d always put things off for “someday.”
I supposed, in a way, someday had finally come.
“I can’t believe you remember that.” My voice came out quieter than I intended. “That was years ago.”
Rhett shrugged, but I caught the slight wince as his injured shoulder protested. “Some things stick with you.”
I took a sip of water, needing a moment. Back then, we’d still been married. Still thought we had all the time in the world.
“I didn’t think you paid attention to stuff like that,” I admitted.
“I paid attention to everything about you.” His eyes held mine, steady and sincere. “Even when you thought I didn’t.”
The server returned with our wine, breaking the moment. I was grateful for the interruption, for the chance to collect myself. Because hearing Rhett say that—knowing he’d carried these tiny details about me through years and distance—made something dangerous flutter in my chest.
With an expectant look, the server held his pen above the notepad. “Are you ready to order?”
We made our choices and handed back the menus. As he walked away, an awkward silence settled between us again. I fiddled with my wineglass, trying to think of something—anything—to say that wouldn’t lead us into dangerous territory.
Rhett cleared his throat. “So, I heard about that food critic who came through town a few months back. Austen said you practically threw him out of Kiss My Grits.”
A laugh burst out of me before I could stop it. “I did not throw him out! I just... strongly suggested he might be more comfortable dining elsewhere.”
“After he asked if your biscuits came from a can?”
“The audacity!” I threw my hands up. “Twenty years of perfecting my grandmother’s recipe, and this Yankee with his fancy pen and his fancy website has the nerve to ask if I use Pillsbury!”
Rhett’s eyes crinkled at the corners as he laughed. “I’m surprised you didn’t chase him down Main Street with your rolling pin.”
“I considered it,” I admitted, feeling the tension ease from my shoulders. “But Mabel talked me down. Said it wouldn’t look good for business.”
“Mabel always was the voice of reason.”
“She still is. Keeps me from going off the deep end at least once a week.” I took a sip of wine. “Last week, she stopped me from adding ghost peppers to the breakfast special after Mrs. Hornsby complained my grits were bland.”
Rhett threw his head back and laughed that full-bodied laugh I hadn’t heard in so long. “Mrs. Hornsby still hasn’t learned, has she? Remember when she said your peach cobbler needed more sugar?”
“And I sent her home with that special batch just for her?” I grinned. “Her face turned so red I thought she was going to spontaneously combust right there in the diner.”
