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I glance at my phone, face up next to the untouched glass of water, its screen as lifeless as my enthusiasm for this waiting game. Any second now, it should buzz with some half-assed excuse from Naomi to miss our weekly charade we call dinner dates.

Since our last encounter at my father’s memorial some weeks ago, she’s practically avoiding me, and I gave her space, but my patience is wearing thinner than the tablecloth.

“Sir, would you like to order while you wait?” The waiter, Marcus, asks for the third time.

He has been serving us every Thursday for the past year. He knows the drill: I order a steak or whatever the special and appetizers, Naomi orders a salad, pushes it around her plate, and sneaks some of the appetizers while I pretend not to notice. But she’s never been this late before. She would have canceled by now.

“Five more minutes, please.” I swipe to refresh my messages for the umpteenth time. Did something happen?

“Of course, Mr. Milton.” There’s pity in his tone, a taste I can’t stomach. “Should I bring you something from the bar while you wait?”

“No, thanks.”

Laughter drifts from a couple nearby, grating my nerves, and I catch the hostess throwing concerned glances my way—being the owner’s friend doesn’t make this any less pathetic.

Refresh. Still nothing from Naomi. I write another message.

Brandon: You good? Haven’t heard from you.

The seconds drag on like hours. The response? Nonexistent. Radio fucking silence.

Brandon: Still ignoring me? Real mature, cupcake.

I stare at the phone, willing her name to pop up. It doesn’t. Shocker.

Brandon: Naomi. Seriously?

Brandon: At least write something. Not even an emoji?

I. Am. Desperate.

Fuck.

I toss the phone back on the table, leaning back in my chair with a huff.

Whereexactlydid I fuck up?

Was it me mentioning her throwing up? Walking after her into the bathroom? Earlier? Me drinking too much or forcing her to eat? The speech? Touching her?

Seems like a long list. Hard to figure out the exact moment.

The restaurant’s getting busier, and the dinner rush is starting to fill empty tables. Each time the door swings open, my head snaps up, hoping for her to stride in with some perfectly reasonable explanation that might make this all bearable.

But it’s never her.

Just more strangers.

The untouched glass of water sweats onto the tablecloth, leaving a dark circle that spreads like my growing unease.

Maybe I should’ve just kept my mouth shut.

My phone rings, jolting me out of my brooding.

Is she—Nope. It’s the realtor.

Am I in the mood? I let it ring a few times. My date’s not here, and the persistent prick will keep calling.

With a sigh, I answer. “Brandon Milton.”

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