“My mom’s name really is Rosie,” I blurted, the words spilling out before I could catch them. “I really did wrestle in high school—and never won a match. I really did lose my security deposit in the candy-making fiasco.”
The memories tumbled out faster. “I really did have ringworm in middle school. And my girlfriend really did punch me in the face because she thought the mark on my neck was a hickey.”
She laughed, the sound sparking along my skin.
“I really did try to go skydiving once,” I added, grinning, “but I never made it out of the plane.”
Another laugh—real this time, fragile but there.
The words kept coming, fast and frantic now, chasing that sound. Every truth I’d told her. Every stupid story. Every small, human detail—everything that had never been a lie.
Until the waiter arrived with our plates—the spell breaking as quickly as it had formed.
“Ladies first,” he announced, setting her plate in front of her. Pasta glistened under a sheen of butter and herbs, the scent rich and warm.
“And for you, sir.”
I poked at the steak, testing its give. Perfect.
Emma reached for her napkin and spread it across her lap. I mirrored her, unable to look away—the small rise and fall of her shoulders, the flicker of candlelight in her eyes, the delicate movement of her hands.
She lifted her fork and knife and cut through the tender pasta. Butter pooled on the plate, steam curling upward as lobster spilled free.
And as she took her first bite, I found myself offering a silent thank you—to whatever might be listening—that she was still here.
Still sitting across from me.
Chapter 11
***
Emma
The lobster was rich—buttery, herbed, everything I’d expected. Flavorless against the chaos in my head. I cut another bite, stealing glances at Damien from beneath my lashes. His plate sat untouched; the whiskey glass emptied sip by sip.
The truths he’d repeated swirled in my mind.
If they were truths at all.
They could have been sculpted—chosen—fit together like a persona built for me and no one else.
I set my fork down, the clink too loud in the candlelit silence. If that were true—if every memory, every joke, every confession had been curated—then what was left of the man I thought I knew?
His interest in me.
His care.
Even that first word that had quieted the voices—perfect.
Everything that had convinced me to come back.
All of it.
Lies.
“Do you like your meal?” he asked.
“Yes.” I pushed food across my plate without looking at him.
