Page 15 of The Gathered Fragments of Us
She'd blushed—God, I loved making her blush. I'd lifted her hand to kiss her knuckles. She'd turned her hand and cupped my cheek.
We'd been interrupted by the server—making her blush even harder and reach for her wine.
For hours, we'd sat and talked. Drank and ate more food than any reasonable person should. I'm sure that we probably shut the place down since that wasn't uncommon when we came here.
I had glimpses of us leaving, an indistinct memory of a time when I was kissing her behind the restaurant—almost fuzzy with the picture in my mind, probably from the wine at the time, or because it was a frequent result of the many dinners we'd had here.
I can actually see her nails in my mind—pink polish. Funny how I can remember that. I can picture her glow, cheeks ablaze and eyes unfocused. Couldn’t remember her age on demand, but today I could remember her fucking nail polish color.
I sighed, our sex life was great, but when was the last time I'd made Felicity glow? When was the last time she felt like the center of my universe? The last time I'd told her she was brilliant and then set about proving it to her.
I couldn't remember.
I sat alone now, the white tablecloth stretched before me like an empty canvas. Same restaurant, warm brick walls and flickering candles—but the man reflected back at me in the black screen of my phone as I checked the time felt like a stranger.
My thoughts were cut off when the server approached my table and asked if he could help me with anything—again.
"Can I get a few things to go?"
He looked eager to move me along. "Sure. Anything in particular?"
I ordered all of Felicity's favorites. The spinach gnocchi, the eggplant she used to insist no one made better. A side of broccoli rabe she always asked them to char it a little extra. And for dessert—instead of ordering here, I'll plan to pick up some cannoli from Modern.
As he walked away, I sat for another moment, imagining what this dinner could've been if I'd manned up sooner. If I'd seen her—really seen her—before she reached the end of her rope.
But this wasn't about what could've been. It was about what came next.
The drive home was quiet—no music. No phone calls. Just me and my thoughts.
I walked into a dark house when I got back, flipping lights on as I moved from room to room. The living room sat empty, and thehallway echoed with my footsteps. I made my way through to the kitchen, where the empty countertops gleamed cold under the sudden bright lights.
I unpacked the food carefully, transferring it to plates. The ones we chose when we got married. The matte ceramic ones she insisted were "modern but timeless." She was right. About those. About a lot.
One place setting that I put to warm in the oven. A glass with her favorite wine.
I didn't know when she would be home, so I set out candles and laid the lighter next to them. I may be an idiot, but at least I wouldn't burn our house down.
I didn't sit down. Didn't linger. Just folded the letter I wrote, slid it under the white dessert box where I’d written “Check the oven” on top, and left it all for her.
I wasn't asking for forgiveness. I wasn't demanding attention. I was simply leaving for her what should have been there all along—recognition, and the words I'd failed to give a voice when I should have.
Then I went upstairs to bed.
~Felicity~
I didn't mean to get home so late. I'd left work without a plan—just a need to move, to not be home when the reservation time came and went. I parked by Carson Beach and walked around Castle Island until the dusk stole the light. I even drove the long way back on purpose.
By the time I unlocked the door, it was nearly nine. The house was quiet. But not empty.
The smell hit first—warm, rich, unmistakable—Italian. I blinked, stepped farther in. The light from the dining room spilled low across the floor. I turned the corner and stopped.
On the table there was a glass of wine. A pastry box that told me to look in the oven. From the oven, I pulled out one of our wedding plates. It was covered with all my favorites from Antico’s—gnocchi, broccoli rabe, eggplant. I felt a sarcastic edge in my mind, thinking, well, at least he remembered that.
And under the dessert box I recognized from Modern Pastry—ten bucks says there are a couple of cannoli in there—sat a folded slip of paper with my name on it.
I picked it up with careful fingers, already bracing for too little, too late. As I opened the letter, I took a sip of wine and reached for my fork. May as well eat while I read. Heartbreak didn't mean I had to let this go to waste! On second thought, screw the fork—I'll start with the cannoli—a hands-on activity. Then I'll worry about adding in some vegetables after with the eggplant.
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