I almost wish this were exactly what she thinks it is. But we’ll do it again soon. Tonight, I have other plans.
At my signal, a staff member, David, steps out from the side door carrying the first course.
He sets a tray down between us.
A board of meats and cheeses. Thin-sliced prosciutto. Salami. A soft wedge of brie. Crumbled feta. Olives. Honey. Crackers. Bread.
A bottle of white is opened and poured.
I watch Erica’s eyes flick to the wine.
Then to the brie. The prosciutto. The honey.
All items that pregnant women can’t have.
She smiles at David, polite, and murmurs a thank you.
Her hands don’t move toward the food.
She takes a cracker. Breaks it in half. Sets it down again.
I lift my glass.
“A toast,” I say.
Her gaze snaps to mine.
She lifts her glass hesitantly.
“To your dad,” I say. “To his continued improvement.”
Her throat works.
“To my dad,” she echoes, and her smile is real in that moment—soft, grateful, shaky around the edges.
Until I clink my glass to hers and drink.
She brings the glass to her lips.
And then she doesn’t.
Not really.
Her mouth barely touches the rim before she lowers it again.
I let my gaze drift slowly over the board. Then back to her face.
She’s clearly in distress. My mouth threatens to twitch.
I take a piece of prosciutto and a slice of brie and eat like I’m not watching her inspect all the items on the table with the focus of a bomb technician.
She picks up a piece of bread and tears it, slowly.
Chews. Swallows.
Her eyes don’t meet mine.
“Try the brie,” I say.
