As if reading my mind, Alex scans the spread of food with pride. “You’ve got it made, wifey.” He hauls his chair back and plunks down in the seat. “Homemade dinners for life. How many wives can put their feet up at the end of the day, while the husbands take to the kitchen?”
The feeling of dread thickens at the reminder.
It shouldn’t though, because he’s right.
I’m lucky. Blessed.
Taking a seat across from him, I nod with gratitude as my phone pings beside me on the ivory tablecloth.
I glance down at the text glowing on the screen.
Mom:It’s worth mentioning that you looked happier just now than I’ve seen you look in a very long time. xoxo
My hand trembles as I reach for a pair of tongs and fill my plate with summer salad, the diamond ring twinkling beneath a wagon wheel chandelier.
Anxiety rolls through me like a torrent-tipped wave.
Because I know exactly what she means.
And she’s not referring to the engagement.
***
[Bridge]
And if we never find the ending,
If the melodies run dry,
Will you still think of me,
Underneath a midnight sky?
No.
Definitely not. Way too sappy.
If we never find that secret chord,
And all the love runs dry,
Will silence fill the spaces,
Where music used to lie?
Still a nope.
Ugh—I love writing bridges.
Why is this so hard?
A pillar candle flickers from the balcony table, ashy trails of smoke dancing toward the sky. The half-burnt cigarette dangles between my fingers, and I bring it to my lips, taking a lung-filling drag. My gaze pans to the treetops, the glow of the waxing moon seeping through the branches and triggering a soft smile.
I click the end of my pen with my thumb.
Then I make three more attempts to write something decent before desperation takes over.
I text Chase.
