Page 43 of Love Me Stalk Me
I resist the urge to bang my head against the window.
Don't jump to conclusions, Izzy. Maybe it's fine. Maybe he just wanted to try a new cuisine. Maybe this isn't going to be exactly like the last time he did this.
The last time he took me to a "cool new restaurant" and then blindsided me with an entiredinner featuring a personal trainer who thought I was signing up for something called a Tough Mudder. I spent the whole evening nodding along while quietly plotting my escape.
I take a deep breath, the cool evening air doing little to calm my rising dread.
Don't assume. Be open-minded. Maybe he's just being nice.
We step inside, the smell of wheatgrass immediately assaulting my nostrils. The interior is all clean lines and neutral tones, with Edison bulbs hanging from the ceiling and plants strategically placed in every corner. The clientele all seem to be wearing athleisure while discussing their latest spin class.
I want to leave.
Instead, I let Evan lead me to a table. The second we sit down, he doesn't even let me look at the menu. Just orders for both of us like this is the 1950s and I have the right to vote but not to choose my own meal. The waitress nods approvingly before disappearing, and I just blink at him, trying to process what is happening.
"You're really going for the full experience, huh?" I say, crossing my arms over my chest.
He barely glances at me, already reaching for his phone. "You never know what to get anyway."
That's not true. It's just that everything here looks like it was designed to be chewed by people who actively enjoy the taste of misery. The menu is full of ingredients I can't pronounce and preparations that seem unnecessarily complicated. I glance around at the entirely too curated, kale-heavy aesthetic. The waitress comes back and sets down a small basket of bread.
Except it's not bread.
"Enjoy," she says brightly. "It's sprouted, fermented, grain-free—full of plant protein."
I don't understand a single word she just said. But I am hungry. I reach for a piece, my stomach growling in anticipation. And that's when Evan's hand clamps over mine, his grip firm and cold.
"You don't need that," he says, calm, firm, dismissive.
I stare at him, my hand frozen beneath his. "Evan, it's not even bread. You heard the waitress. It's, like... sprouted beans or something."
He sighs, shaking his head like I'm a child who doesn't understand basic concepts. "Izzy. No. What about your goals?"
I blink.
Then I blink again.
I don't know what happens, but a dam breaks inside me. A rush of frustration that's been building for months suddenly threatensto overflow.
I pull my hand back, crossing my arms. "What about my goals, Evan?"
His eyes dart around the restaurant, like he's already embarrassed by this conversation. Like I'm making a scene by simply questioning him.
He leans forward slightly. "Don’t get the way you get."
My appetite vanishes, replaced by a hollow feeling in my chest. I sit back, staring at him, suddenly so, so tired. Our relationship—the accumulation of quiet disappointments—settles over me.
"What's the big surprise, Evan?" I ask, voice flat.
He exhales dramatically. "Well, now you ruined the night."
I’m incredulous. "I ruined the night? By trying to eat a piece of not-bread-bread at a restaurantyoubrought me to?"
He gives me a look, like I'm being dramatic. "It's your attitude, Izzy. That's what ruined it."
I laugh, no humor in it. The sound is hollow, echoing the emptiness I feel.
"Just say what you were going to say," I tell him. "Or don't. I don't care."
