Page 45 of Liberating Bells
“Six, it is,” I say, grinning widely. “I still don’t know how such a tiny girl like you can put away a whole plate of pasta con broccoli.”
She shrugs a shoulder and smirks. “It’s a gift. Okay. I’ll see you then.”
And when she turns away this time, I let her go, knowing I’ll have the chance to spend some more time with her this evening. I grab what I need and checkout.
When I hop in the car, I see that it’s almost three already. I don’t have time to patch up that wall today, but I swing by the office to drop off the supplies and tell Lori she can head home. Then I go back to my condo to shower and get changed for dinner.
I can’t exactly explain why I’m so deliriously happy. I was the one who cut ties between Izabel and me after the gala incident. Boundaries had been set, and she adhered to them, which Iappreciated. But the distance didn’t turn out to be the all-powerful healing I was looking for.
I’m hopelessly head-over-heels for Izabel, and unfortunately for me, I’m not sure if anything is going to help that.
I rush through my shower and try my best to tame my hair, throw on a fresh pair of pants and a nice shirt, and head out the door. I arrive at the restaurant fifteen minutes before six. The host shows me to a table for two and places two sets of silverware and two menus, and the waiter swings by the table only a minute later with a basket of fresh-baked bread. He looks young, like he must still be in high school.
“Can I get you something to drink while you wait?” he asks me, pulling out his little notepad.
I lean back in my chair slightly. “I’ll do a whiskey neat, and a Pinot Grigio for my date. She should be here shortly.”
I remember her mentioning white wine is her favorite. Red gives her a raging headache.
The waiter runs off to put in the drinks, and I glance around the restaurant, craning my neck to see if she’s at the front of the restaurant. When I don’t see her, I pull out my phone and shoot her a text.
Ryan:Hey Bells, I’ve got a table for us. Just come on in whenever you get here.
No response.A different waiter comes back with the drinks, carefully positioning the glasses on the table. I pick up the whiskey and take a generous sip, my eyes still glued to my phone, waiting for the screen to light up.
Six o’clock comes and goes.
Six-thirty.
I scroll to her contact information and press the green call icon. It doesn’t even ring, just goes straight to voicemail:“Hey, it’s Izabel, sorry I missed you. Leave me a message, and I’ll call you back!”
“Bells, it’s me. Just wanted to make sure I got the time right. I thought we said six. Just give me a call and let me know if I messed up!”
Six-forty-five.
The waiter comes by and refreshes the basket of bread that I’ve demolished with a fresh basket. And he drops a few butter packets beside me. He stands awkwardly for a moment. “Anything else I can get you, sir?”
I hold up my glass of whiskey that is mostly empty. “You could put another one of these in for me.”
He nods and disappears without another word.
When I look down at my glass, I feel sick to my stomach. Here I thought we’d get to have this pleasant dinner, just her and me—a lame attempt at nostalgia. I didn’t even consider how desperate it made me look. Izabel was probably looking for an out, but couldn’t find one.
So she just shuts her phone off and ghosts me. Sounds about right.
The other waiter, who I’ve deduced, is the bartender, strolls by with another whiskey neat, and sets it down.
Getting trapped in the cycle of my own loathing, I quickly down it and then hold it out for him to replenish. His eyes widen just a fraction, but he pats me on the shoulder and heads back to the bar, returning with a fresh glass only a minute later.
Seven o’clock.
By this time, I’ve sent her two more texts. It is a mixture of confusion and concern that she’s possibly gotten into a car accident or held up in another way—namely that asshole fiancé of hers. But still, no response.
I go back and forth between feeling worry that something’s happened to her, and irritation with the prospect that she’s standing me up. I finally settle on the resolution that if she had been having difficulties with Mark, she could have sent me a text.
Seven-thirty.
I send her one more text. The last attempt. This is bullshit. I feel like Ross onFriends. I glance around, making sure the rest of the dinner guests aren’t throwing me pitiful glances. Throwing back the rest of my drink, I wave the waiter over. He comes and hands me the check. I look it over, even though the words and numbers are blurring together.
