Adrian's eyes scan my body, and I shiver as his hunger becomes apparent. "You look beautiful."
"Thank you."
He shifts carefully, and I realize he's holding something behind his back. A small package wrapped in brown paper, tied with string.
"I have something else for you," he says. "But I wanted to give it to you at dinner.”
There's something vulnerable in the way he says it, and I feel my heart beating quickly as I wonder what it could be.
"That's okay."
He offers me his arm. "Shall we?"
I set the poetry book down carefully and slip my hand into the crook of his elbow. The gesture feels oddly formal and old-fashioned, and it’s a reminder that we’ve done all this backwards.
This is the tension that comes from a first date, when you are getting to know one another.
Adrian leads me through the mansion to the conservatory where we talked earlier. The space has been transformed.
Candles flicker on a small table set for two. Not the massive dining room table designed for power plays and family politics. This is intimate. Private.
Real flowers, anemones and white dahlias, sit in a clear vase.
"You did all this?"
"I had help." He pulls out my chair. "But yes, I planned it. Minus the flowers. I don’t know shit about flowers.”
I laugh, and it breaks the tension as we take our seats.
A staff member I don't recognize brings out the first course. Insalata caprese.
"I remembered you said you liked simple Italian food," Adrian says. "So, I asked the kitchen to keep it simple."
"This is perfect." I cut into the mozzarella, closing my eyes as the flavor of the balsamic and basil paired with the creaminess of the cheese explodes on our tongue.
"I need to apologize,” Adrian says.
I look up, surprised. “Wow, I never thought I’d hear those words coming from you.”
This time he laughs. "I should have been more attentive. We got married, and I just disappeared. That wasn’t…” He runs a hand through his hair, a nervous tic I’ve noticed, “It wasn’t what I wanted.”
I don't know what to say to that.
"I don't know how to do this," Adrian continues. "How to be a husband. How to make you happy. I only know how to protect things. Control them. But you—" He stops. "You're not something I can just lock up and keep safe. You're a person. And I've been treating you like a problem to solve instead of someone I should actually know."
"Adrian—"
"Let me finish." He takes a breath. "I want to try. Actually try. Not just say the words but do the work. Starting tonight."
He slides a beautifully wrapped package across the table to me. It’s wrapped in velvet fabric.
"This is for you."
My hands shake as I unwrap it.
Inside is a book. Vintage. Very well preserved, and yet, I still tremble, holding my hand above the paper, scared to touch it.
Winnie the Pooh.
