Page 90 of Fault Lines
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Thursday evening, I twirled in front of the tall mirror, admiring the way the sleek black dress hugged every curve, my hair perfectly arranged, heels sky-high and dangerous. If there was ever a night to go all out, it was tonight. This week, Cam had been attentive in the way I barely remembered: spending a lazy weekend in bed, watching old movies, making love; lingering in the kitchen each morning with me over coffee; and, every night, actually coming home on time, sharing quiet dinners before tucking me in close.
I’d booked Gianelli’s for six. Cam’s favorite, and I liked it too—the candlelight, the wine that always left me giddy, the sense of occasion.
Nate knew I was taken tonight; he’d been disappointed, but he took it in stride. He was always so understanding, never pushing or pouting. If anything, he was waiting for me to see what was right in front of me, but after a week like this, with Cam, I couldn’t imagine leaving.
I navigated the living room as gracefully as the heels would allow, feeling the electric anticipation for the night. I perched on the couch to wait. Thirty minutes before the reservation, my phone pinged.
Sorry babe, something important has come up. I’ll meet you at the restaurant instead. I might be a few minutes late. So sorry about this.
I sighed, a tiny spike of irritation flaring. He was the one who insisted on six o’clock. But it was fine. We’d just take separate cars.
When I arrived at Gianelli’s, I was surprised to find the place bursting with people. I’d forgotten how busy it got, and suddenly felt lucky to have even snagged a reservation. The hostess led me straight to our table, which sat in the middle of the bustling room, exposed on all sides. I wished I’d requested something quieter. Too late now.
I settled in. The waiter came quickly, and I ordered wine for both of us, telling him Cam would be along soon. He poured two glasses and vanished. The first sip was bracing, dry, cutting. I laughed to myself, remembering Nate’s distaste for cheap supermarket bottles—the kind I loved.
As I scrolled on my phone to pass the time, I nearly choked when I saw Rachel had changed her status to in a relationship. I shot off a comment, then texted her.
Excuse me madam, why didn’t you call me and give me the news right away????
She replied instantly.
Sorry! It was so last minute. He didn’t even really ask me. He just told me last night that I was his and not to argue about it. Then he demanded today that I change my status.It all happened so fast, I really don’t know how to feel about it.
That’s amazing! I’m so happy for you! You two are great together.
I meant it. Rachel deserved someone good. Jackson seemed solid—even if I didn’t know him well, and his friendship with Nate was reassuring.
Thanks girl. We need to get together soon. We should double with Nate again.
Soon!
The waiter sidled up again. “Would you like to order now or wait for your husband?”
“I’ll wait a few minutes,” I said, forcing a smile.
He retreated and I took another sip of wine, waiting for Cam. Ten minutes slipped by. Twenty. I checked my phone, hoping for a message, but nothing new appeared. The door swung open, closed, but it was never him.
Finally, I sent a quick text.
Everything okay, honey?
I tried to distract myself by people-watching. The place was a constellation of couples, heads bowed together, hands sometimes touching. I watched them, envied their simplicity—the way they could just be together, no secret scripts or arrangements. They didn’t have to wonder if tonight their partner was with someone better, or more exciting, or just different. They could just exist, secure. I wished they knew how rare that was.
The waiter returned, filling my glass. “Are you ready to order?”
“Sure,” I said, glancing at the clock. “I’ll just get us both something so he doesn’t have to wait.”
He rattled off specials; I picked ravioli for myself and chicken marsala for Cam, his favorite.
The plates arrived before Cam did, and the waiter gave me an apologetic look. “Would you like me to keep his in the warmer?”
I shook my head. “No, thanks. If it’s cold, he’ll know not to be late next time.” It was meant to be a joke, but it landed a little flat.
Now I was certain people around us were taking notice—the solitary wife in the black dress at the table for two. I ate a bite of the ravioli, felt the rush of flavor, but my appetite was already thinning. Where was he? What could possibly be so important?
I dialed his number. Three rings, then voicemail. I called again. Voicemail.
