“I mean the greasy pizza we ate on my couch,” I clarify quickly, waving a hand. “Though, to be fair, the setting here is better.”
“You don’t like your house?” he asks.
“What? Oh no, that’s not what I meant.” I shake my head. “It’s a forty-year-old duplex that hasn’t been updated since it was built, but I actually love it. And the neighbourhood is great.”
He nods, studying me with that intense, unreadable gaze. “Have you spoken to your landlord recently?”
“Yes! He’s found someone new for the other unit,” I say, perking up.
“Oh?”
“Uh-huh. I don’t know who they are yet, or when they’re moving in, but my rent’s staying the same and that’s all I care about.”
Something in his shoulders eases, and the faintest shadow of concern melts off his face. “That’s good,” he says simply.
Our eyes meet again, and just like that, the air thickens. My stomach does this ridiculous swooping thing while heat unfurls through my chest. I grab my menu, tempted to hide behind it.
It’s heavier than I expect. The leather cover creaks when I open it. Inside, everything is written in elegant French script.
I flip through the pages, scanning for something recognizable. “Poulet,” I whisper under my breath. “That’s chicken, right?” But then my eyes catch something else, and my heart does a whole new kind of flip.
“Oh my god.”
Arthur looks up. “You can’t read French either?”
“Not well,” I admit. “But I can read the prices just fine.” I look at him, horrified. “Arthur. This place is too expensive.”
He waves a hand dismissively, eyes already back on the menu. “Don’t worry about it.”
He doesn’t mean it unkindly, but the phrase lands like a blow.
Don’t worry about it.
I’ve heard those words before from Shawn. Every time I asked how we could afford something, where the money came from, why the bills were late.Don’t worry about it.And I didn’t. I wanted to trust him. I wanted to believe it was fine.
But it wasn’t fine. And I paid for my blind faith time and time again.
My palms grow clammy against the smooth leather menu. I tell myself this isn’t the same. Arthur isn’t Shawn. He’s not hiding anything. He’s just wealthy enough that a dinner like this barely registers on his radar. Still, the imbalance gnaws at me. The cost of this meal. The cost of everything. The favour of driving Roxanne, the physiotherapy sessions, the way I keep accepting his help like it’s free when it never really feels that way.
My throat tightens. It’s all too much, the candlelight, themarble. I’m being silently smothered in luxury. I can feel my pulse thudding beneath the too-snug neckline of my dress.
A perfectly composed woman in her late twenties appears, wearing a crisp white shirt and a pleasant smile.
“Good evening,” she says smoothly. “My name is Sylvia, and I’ll be your server this evening. Would you like to start with something to drink?”
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.
Arthur glances at me, the corners of his mouth thin in concern. My first date in more than a decade and I am blowing it. I want to sink under the tablecloth.
“Give us a moment, please,” he tells the server, his eyes never leaving my face. When Sylvia is gone, he asks, “Status report?”
My brow furrows. “What?”
“It’s what I ask my players during a game to determine if they’re okay or too hurt to play. You look like you’re being tortured. I know I’ve been out of the dating scene for a while, but I didn’t think I was fucking up this colossally. Do you want to call this?”
I swallow thickly. “No, it’s just…”
He waits patiently for me to collect my thoughts.
