Another five minutes go by. Then another five.
I’ve finished two waters, and suddenly a glass of champagne appears in front of me by way of Peter. “I didn’t order that, though?”
“It’s on the house.” He grins. “That is if you want it. I can always go in back and get you a Sprite or something else.”
My smile is so much weaker than before. He’s officially twenty minutes late. Maybe I misread this whole thing? Oh God, I’m an idiot… I shouldn’t assume the worst.
“No, this is fine. I love champagne.”
“Excellent.”
Another painful fifteen minutes and two empty glasses of champagne later, I put in a to-go order and wait, with each minute that goes by, my stomach sinks even further. Insecurity wars with irritation as people laugh around me. Why does it feel like they’re laughing at me when I know they’re in their own worlds? I shouldn’t have gotten my hopes up. What was I even thinking?
Peter brings my food over. I hand him my card. “Sorry for taking up a table.”
“It was my pleasure.” Peter grins. “Don’t worry about the table, and I hope you give your date hell.”
It’s on the tip of my tongue to say it wasn’t a date, but if it wasn’t, then why do I feel so embarrassed and hurt?
I grab my takeout and power walk back to the apartment building.
I’m inside my building and at the elevator before I realize it.
I stare straight at the ground while the smell of Italian food fills the small space, serving as yet another reminder that I was stood up by 6B.
The minute I get to my apartment, I take off my cute pants, my shoes, my blazer, and the bra that's been digging into my side all night, then I slip into an oversized white T-shirt.
I finally check my phone. Something is seriously wrong with Ashton’s brain. The sheer number of inappropriate things she’s texted in the last few hours is alarming.
I nearly trip over Dr. Doom coming back into the kitchen for my food but can only stare at the Marco’s to-go bag as tears well in my eyes. Great, now he’s ruined one of my favorite Italian places.
Rather than eating food like a normal adult, I go straight to the freezer for my salted caramel ice cream, grab a spoon, flip off the lid, and dig in. Yep, straight from the carton. The minute the cold hits my tongue, I’m momentarily satisfied enough to exhale for the first time that night. I eat another bite.
“It’s fine.” I peer over at Dr. Doom. No, I’m talking to my cat, that seems more normal, right?
I let out a groan and put the spoon in my mouth, then put the rest of the ice cream away. With the spoon still in my mouth and ice cream melting on my tongue, I pick up Dr. Doom and walk over to the couch just as a knock sounds at my door.
It’s probably Ashton, riding in like she needs to rescue me from an archcriminal or something. I didn’t have it in me to text her that I’d been stood up, and I haven’t responded to any of her texts. I figured I’d let her keep sending me graphic texts, ones that include memes I didn’t even know the iPhone would let me share.
“Ashton,” I say, mouth full of spoon as I open the door. “Trust me, you don’t want to?—”
The spoon drops out of my mouth and clatters to the floor. It’s Nathan, and he looks like he just got run over by a truck. His hair’s a mess, still handsome but definitely not as controlled as usual. His brown eyes have no light behind them. That’s the first thing I notice. His stare is intense.
Slowly, he leans down, picks up the spoon, and hands it to me. He smells like whiskey. His light-blue button-down shirt isopen at the top, as if he had ripped off his tie. He’s still in what looks like his black work trousers.
I take the spoon from his hand and clutch it in my right.
“Is everything okay?”
“Listen, I just wanted to apologize.”
“For what?” I play stupid.
He gives me a pointed look and doesn’t respond.
“It’s fine,” I whisper.
His head is down, and as he looks up, I see the unshed tears, and in that moment, I realize that this has nothing to do with me.
