“Hey, why did the chef bring a ladder to the menu?” Billy’s eyes sparkle from across the table, fingers already tapping the table in anticipation of his own punchline.
“Um, I don’t know. Why?”
“Because the specials were on another level.” He bursts into laughter, slapping the table hard enough to make the water glasses jump. The couple at the next table glances over, and I force my mouth into something resembling a smile.
“What’s your favorite thing here?” He cocks his head, finally recovering.
“Um, I guess the rabbit stew. I haven’t had it in years, though. Maybe they changed it.”
“It’s my favorite too, and don’t worry. It’s still the same as it always was.” He beams at me, leaning forward with unexpected intensity. “They raise the rabbits on their own farm north of town. Free-range, organic feed, the whole nine yards. I actually helped them design their new hutch system last spring—temperaturecontrolled, automatic water systems, even classical music piped in. The owner swears Vivaldi makes the meat more tender.”
For a moment, his face transforms. The nervous energy drops away as he describes the engineering behind the hutches, how he calculated the optimal space per rabbit, the ventilation system he created. He’s genuinely passionate about this, and I can see the mechanical engineer in him coming alive. It’s actually interesting.
Then he catches himself, face flushing. “Sorry, I know that’s probably boring?—”
“No, it’s?—”
“Oh! Speaking of rabbits, did you hear the one about the magician who pulled a rabbit out of his hat?” He laughs before even finishing, and just like that, the moment’s gone.
I drop my gaze to the menu, its laminated surface reflecting the overhead lights. Billy’s still decent looking—sandy hair with that carefully disheveled thing going on. He’s kind, successful, has his life together. On paper, perfect.
But there’s nothing there. No pull when he leans closer, no urge to know what he’s thinking. We haven’t even ordered yet, and I’m already calculating how long until this can reasonably end. My phone sits heavy in my pocket—one text to Jemma and she’d call with a fake emergency.
The waiter appears, and we both order the rabbit stew. Billy makes a big deal about us choosing the same thing. “Great minds, right?”
The stew arrives, and it’s actually wonderful—tender meat, root vegetables soft but not mushy, broth rich with thyme and bay. Billy watches me take my first bite with an anticipation that makes me uncomfortable.
“Good, right? I actually called ahead to make sure they had it tonight.”
“It’s delicious.”
“I knew you’d—oh, wait!” His face lights up. “Why did the salt break up with the pepper?”
My soul leaves my body. “Why?”
“She was too spicy for him!” He snort-laughs, and I notice a piece of carrot stuck between his front teeth.
Two more condiment jokes follow. By the time we’re walking to our cars, I’m exhausted in a way that has nothing to do with Billy’s comedy routine. The cold January air hits my face like a blessing, but underneath the relief, something else creeps in. My limbs feel heavy, like someone’s slowly filling them with wet cement. The streetlights seem too bright, their halos pulsing with my heartbeat.
Not now. Please, not now.
“I had a great time tonight.” Billy lingers next to my car, rocking on his heels.
“I did, too. Thank you so much.”
We stand there in painful silence. The streetlight flickers above us. Then Billy takes a step forward, lips already puckering.
I let out a little “Oh,” and sidestep. He stumbles, catches himself on the curb.
I clear my throat. “It was great seeing you.”
His face falls—that crushed puppy look. “Uh... you too. When are you leaving town?”
“Real soon.” I fumble with my keys. “Have a great rest of your vacation!” The false cheer in my voice makes me cringe.
I don’t look back. In my rearview mirror, his shoulders hunch as he walks to his pristine SUV. Thank goodness that’s over.
At my parents’ house, I ease the door shut and slip past the living room where something explodes on TV—probably one of Dad’s action movies. Jemma isn’t in our room, her side the usual controlled chaos. So they don’t worry, I send a family group text.
