Page 37 of Love You, Mean It

“It was my song with my dad, not that it’s any of your business,” I spat, turning back to grab the pasta bowl and move it to the prep counter as I blinked rapidly. I ducked down to open the cupboard with all the salad platters to buy myself extra time to regaincontrol. “And yes, I know it’s stupid, I don’t needyouto tell me that, but…it always makes me think of him.” Dammit, now the tears were welling up again. I sucked a few breaths through my tightly o’ed mouth, pinching my eyes tight. Was I starting my period or something?

“I don’t think that’s stupid,” Theo murmured. I risked a glance over my shoulder. His eyebrows had lowered with remorse, and he couldn’t hold my gaze for more than a couple seconds. “I wouldn’t have said anything if I’d known what it meant to you.”

And now the tears were surging so hard I could only gulp and nod. Theo wasn’t supposed to creep into that part of my life. Hell, he wasn’t even supposed to know it existed.

I carefully scooped the salad onto the platter and topped it with chiffonaded herbs, the minimal focus the task required enough to allow me to finally get a handle on myself.

“Anyway,” I said when the dish was ready, crossing to pull the nearly empty platter out of the deli case to make the swap, “I’m assuming you came here for a reason?”

“Right, yes.” Theo nodded, clearly relieved to move on to other topics. “I thought we could get dinner tonight.”

“And you felt the need to deliver this news in person…why?”

“So you’d say yes. It’s more difficult to disappoint someone face-to-face.” A tiny twinkle returned to his eyes.

“Are you saying you’d be deeply disappointed if I said no?” I scooped the remaining pasta from the old platter into a quart container and moved to the scale to weigh and label it for the prepacked fridge I’d installed at the front of the store, near the breads and dried pastas. It was one of my more successful additions; a surprising number of customers shopped from it almost exclusively.

“As yourfiancé? Yes. I expect at least one date night a week. You know, to keep the spark alive.”

“What if I have plans? It’s”—I glanced at the wall clock—“almost six o’clock. Bit late to issue a dinner invitation.”

“Doyou?” Theo raised one eyebrow. It gave him a rakish look, like he was about to suggest something that could get us sent to the principal’s office. “Have plans?”

“I mean…I could.” I planted my hands on my hips. Technically, opening a bottle of wine and texting Bella with some reality show on in the background wasn’t afirmplan, but I had beenplanningto do it.

“Which means you don’t.” His lips curled in that specifically Theo show of triumph. Annoyance coiled through me. “So. Dinner.”

“Why tonight? No, scratch that, why at all? You can’t expect me to put on my game face for some new friend or family member we have to convince with no warning.”

“But I can expect you to sit across from me somewhere that a few people might see us together,” he said, voice halfway to scolding.

“Theo, we don’t have to—”

“Yes, we have to.” He tipped his chin down, the better to stare at me from beneath his lowered brow, clearly preparing to educate me. My annoyance twisted tighter. “We can’t rely on my building manager to get the word out to the entire town. We only bought ourselves so much time, and we agreed that the story has to have legs outside of direct conversations with Ted.”

I inhaled sharply. I wasn’t even sure why I was resisting so hard. Maybe I just resented Theo’s supreme confidence that I’d agree. That, and the singing incident had left a lingering feeling of having my ribs cracked open for Theo to poke around inside.

“Fine, I close in twenty minutes, we can go then,” I ground out.

“To your apartment, to change.”

“Excuse me?”

“No offense, Ellie, but taking you to some burrito joint isn’t going to yield the results we’re after.”

“Plenty of couples like burritos.” With most of my exes, that had counted as splashing out.

“Then we’ll do burritos tomorrow. Tonight we have reservations at Post.”

Post was Milborough’s most prominent foray into fine dining, a farm-to-table spot housed in the decommissioned post office. The grand interior—with clever details like a dividing wall of old PO boxes and the kitchen visible behind the still intact customer service counter—drew crowds of chic, attractive people eager for a taste of city-level luxury. It had appeared on regional “best of” lists for years. I think it was even up for some fancy award recently, though I had no idea whether it won.

Maybe because I’d never actuallybeenthere. I walked by regularly, had even paused to peer at menus full of heritage meats garnished with pickled seasonal slaws and produce varietals you could picture without having actually eaten them, like chervil. But Post? Who was I going to bring, the drummer from the crappy local punk band I slept with off and on last summer?

“If you have a reservationthere,you could have given me some warning,” I sputtered. Even on weekdays the restaurant booked out well in advance.

“I got it on the drive over, otherwise I would have.” I squinted, disbelieving. “I’m friends with the beverage director,” Theo said, glancing back at the clock. “It’s now evencloserto six, and I’m sure you have plenty to do before closing. The reservation’s at seven-thirty, if you want a shower…” His eyes elevatored me.

“Fine, flip the sign to Closed,” I said, gritting my teeth. At least if I had to put up with Theo’s arrogance for another night, I’d get a good meal out of it.

---