I glance out the window. Across the street, tucked between a bakery and a darkened hardware store, is a red-and-white-checkered awning. A neon sign flickers: Bella Notte. My heart, which has been a clenched fist for days, doesn’t quite loosen. It shifts.
“You remembered,” I say.
“October fourteenth,” Skyler says softly. “You wore a green sweater and spent twenty minutes explaining why the foster care system was a relic of the Victorian era. I think I fell in love somewhere between the antipasto and the second glass of house red.”
I step out of the car, the cool evening air hitting my face. The scent of garlic and simmering tomatoes is everywhere, a wonderful contrast to the sterile, expensive scent of the Thompson estate. As we approach the door, a small bell chimes. The restaurant is exactly as I remember it, with lighting that makes everyone look like they’re in a 1930s film noir.
A woman with hair the color of a thunderstorm looks up from a podium. “Skyler? And the little social worker! You’re alive!”
“Hi, Blanche,” Skyler says, stepping forward for an awkward hug.
She notes his designer bag and the expensive cut of his shirt, then settles on me. “You need a drink. Both of you.”
She then leads us to table four, a small corner squeezed between a radiator and a mural of the Amalfi Coast. As I sit, the heavy silence between us returns.
“I don’t know why I give you these,” Blanche says, dropping menus. “You’re going to order the mushroom ravioli, the chicken parm, and the Chianti that tastes like dirt.”
“She’s not wrong,” I say, though I don’t even so much as glance at him.
“She never is,” he agrees.
When Blanche disappears, Skyler reaches across the table. His fingers twitch toward mine, but I pull back to adjust my napkin. The rejection hangs in the air.
“I realized that every time we talk lately, we’re in their house,” Skyler says. “Using their words. I want to remember what it was like when it was just us. Before I started acting like someone I don’t even like.”
“Then stop acting,” I say, the bitterness leaking through. “It’s a choice, Skyler.”
Blanche returns with the wine, uncorking it with a practiced pop. “Drink,” she commands. “Talk. Don’t leave until you’ve said the things that make you want to cry.”
I take a long sip of the rough, acidic wine. “Five minutes, Skyler. You have five minutes of total honesty. Because I’m at my limit.”
He takes a deep breath. “I’m terrified, Harley. I’m terrified of losing their approval, and I’m terrified that if I keep holding on to it, I’ll lose the only person who actually knows me.”
“You are losing me,” I say. “I’m being emotionally liquidated by your family while you watch from the sidelines.”
“I know. It was a betrayal.” He looks glassy-eyed, more human than he has in weeks. But my empathetic nature is currently at war with my social worker brain. I’ve seen this pattern of recidivism before.
“We were happy in that tiny apartment,” I breathe. “There were no legacies or expectations. We only saw or spoke to your parents once every few months.”
“I remember.” He reaches into his pocket and slides his phone across the table. “But Harl, we’re so close. Once the mold is gone, we’ll move back immediately.”
Staring at the screen, I glimpse a life I thought was gone. For a second, the tension breaks.
“But when?”
“The landlord says by the time we’re back from our honeymoon.”
He takes my hand, and this time, I let him. His skin is warm, but the weight of the upcoming wedding still sits like a stone in my stomach.
“I’m sorry it took me so long to find the door,” he whispers.
Blanche brings our meals. We eat in fragile silence. I want to believe this is a new beginning, but I know the Thompsons don’t let go that easily.
“You’re really going to tell them, Sky?” I ask. “The guest list? The venue?”
His expression darkens. “I’m going to tell them the guest list is closed.”
I want to believe him, I really do. But then he shifts in his seat, his touch becoming a little too insistent.
