Page 54 of Love Is an Art
I can show her I’m over Paisley.
We walk toward Sixth Avenue.
I stop and turn to her. “I’m over Paisley, but I’d prefer never to see her again.”
Tessa bites her lip. She looks pretty tortured, come to think of it.
“I get it,” she says. “Wyatt dumped me and immediately started dating someone new. He swore that he’d ended it with me before they kissed, but I suspect he met her and moved on while he was still dating me. That betrayal still hurts. Especially because I thought we were pretty serious. When he stopped pressuring me to get together all the time, I thought he was being understanding about my work schedule. In retrospect, I guess he was moving on. At first, it seemed like we had similar life goals, but in the end, we had completely different methods. I want to be in the trenches, and he wants to be the distant benefactor, attending charity benefits.”
I wasn’t moving on. I was preparing to propose.I shake my head. “I’m sorry. That’s the first time I’ve seen Paisley without warning since we broke up. I’m not good company right now.”
“Do you want to call it an evening?” She faces me as we stand next to a very large sculpture in the form of a metal egg. Yellow taxis race up Sixth Avenue. The wind blows her blonde hair onto her face, and she holds it back, looking at me earnestly.
I shake my head. Forget Paisley. Tessa is right here, and I’m going to lose her if I freak out over seeing Paisley. Again.
“No, let’s go check out that Thai place you mentioned. I’m fine.”
We walk up Sixth Avenue and then turn onto 58thStreet as she leads us to the restaurant.Get a grip, Zeke. That was good. Good that Paisley saw you with someone else. Good that you could converse with Paisley like a normal person.
It was good.
A bright-yellow awning withTopazThai Authenticannounces the restaurant. Authentic. That’s what I’m looking for now.
And that’s what I need to be too. So, I can’t be accused of not talking about my feelings and putting work above everything else.
The waitress greets Tessa warmly. Tessa must come here often. The wooden-walled restaurant is fairly crowded, with a low hum of conversation. It feels comfortable and welcoming. The waitress gives us the prime table by the window.
“What’s good to order?”
“It’s all good.” Tessa tilts her head and looks at me, like she’s searching for answers. “Should we share some dishes?”
“Definitely.” Paisley hated sharing dishes. She only wanted to eat what she’d ordered. When we first dated, when she was the one pursuing me and I was not sure—ironic, really—I hated that.
“Chicken curry?” Tessa asks.
“We definitely need a curry dish. And a noodle dish.”
“Drunken Noodle?” she asks.
“But I’m tempted by the Dancing Chicken.” The menu is filled with catchy names for dishes, like Roaring Tiger, Lovely in the Golden Nest, and Swimming Duck.
“It sounds like Dancing Chicken ate a few too many Drunken Noodles,” she says.
I smile. “Have you tried it?”
She nods. “It’s good if you want to eat that instead of the chicken curry.”
“No, next time.”
She looks up, her glance catching mine. And she raises an eyebrow and then signals the waitress to give our order.
There’s silence after the waitress leaves. I take a sip of the ice-cold water.
“Do you want to talk about it?” she asks tentatively. “Not that you have to. It’s … you look conflicted.”
Yeah. I’ve always been pretty easy to read. A frickin’ open book.
I let out a short, harsh laugh. “I don’t want to hash it out again. It makes me feel like an idiot. That I didn’t suspect a thing.”
