“What’s your name?” I ask as if it matters.
“Bri,” she says. Somehow, she looks like a Bri. Tight curls, dark eyes, and warm brown skin. That gives B-name vibes, I guess. “What’s yours?”
“Liem. It’s inconvenient but nice to meet you.”
“Likewise.”
~
Off the lobby, the hotel bar is just as lux as the restaurant we came from. Dim lighting shines from a massive chandelier over a room full of people in business attire, pajamas, and everything in between. Bri and I are tucked into a booth in the corner, secluded enough to let us inhale the pasta and cry without elongating our list of witnesses.
No part of this night feels real. I lost the plot, and I can’t figure out where.
I understand I look too logically at situations and am prone to misinterpreting the nuance of emotion, but I love Natalie. Yes, she is hyper independent and not traditionally affectionate, but we were happy, right? No one stays together for two years if they aren’t actuallytogether, right? Wanting to marry the person you admire andlove the most isn’t weird,right?
And now what I’m doing? I’m a clingy idiot, I just got dumped, and I want to die a little, but at least I have pasta?
To be fair, this pasta is gas. I’m questioning my decision to share it.
“Want to switch?” Bri asks. I must have been staring at her box of bucatini absent-mindedly. “It’s yours anyway.”
“Was I eye-fucking it?”
“Yes.” She laughs.
We trade boxes without thinking about germs. Health and longevity are low on my list of desires right now.
“This pasta is amazing,” she says, pretending she hasn’t started crying again. The reminder makes my vision cloud again.
“It really is.”
We both wipe our cheeks rather than our mouths. When we lock eyes again, I realize how awkward it is to be crying while eating with a stranger. It’s like a blind date with trauma—though I feel closer to her than to anyone else in this city.
She breaks eye contact to ask the waiter for another bottle of wine. While I’m no sommelier, I’m cultured enough to identify that this bottle doesn’t sell for house wine prices.
“This is expensive. You don’t have to—”
“My ex put me up in this hotel and left his credit card on file for incidentals,” she says. “I will be getting anything and everything I can charge to the room.”
Being complicit in vengeance is a mood booster. “Free alcohol? My night just got a lot better,” I muse.
“Really? Because getting dumped in front of forty strangers was the best part of my evening.” Her sarcasm is as refreshing as the red blend she provides.
“Out of the two of us, you shouldn’t be the one embarrassed.You ate him up,” I say. She brushes off my compliment with a grunt through a mouthful of fettuccine. “I’m serious. My ex thinks I’m out of my mind for moving here to be close to her, and she doesn’t even know there’s an engagement ring in my suitcase.”
She hums a laugh. “Love that for you, but my three-year anniversary is next week. I showed up to dinner thinking I was getting engagedtonight. And as everyone in hearing distance found out, he flew me out just to tell me he’s been cheating on me.”
“Amazing,” I say. “Sliding in with a one-up, I gave up my apartment, quit my job, and cashed out my entire 401k to buy the ring, so not only do I not have a fiancé, I’m also unemployed and effectively homeless.”
“Oh my god, same! Except I never had a 401k because my life was in shambles even before I had the joy of having a public crashout, and I’mdefinitelyhomeless because the cheating ex I cussed out is my landlord.”
Her dark sense of humor is much appreciated. “Fine, you win. Damn.”
“Thank you.”
We clink glasses, sipping until we both break and start laughing. Maybe we’re tipsier than I thought, but the situation I find myself iniscomical, when you think about it.
“I was going to propose to a woman who doesn’t evenlikeme.” Saying it aloud, I have to laugh. “I have three degrees, and I couldn’t tell I was getting dumped until it happenedtwice.”
