Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 81170 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 406(@200wpm)___ 325(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81170 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 406(@200wpm)___ 325(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
“Anyway.” He tosses back the remainder of his drink before placing his fork and knife at the bottom of his plate.
He’s done with dinner.
Probably done with this conversation too.
I don’t say another word. I simply work on finishing my duck à l’orange and cauliflower mash.
“I’m sorry.” I point at my still-full plate between bites. I’ve always been a slow eater, but tonight it seems especially that way.
“Take your time,” he says, though I can’t tell if he means it, if he’s being sarcastic or gracious or all of that or none of that. All his mixed signals make him impossible to read.
Roman checks his phone . . . again.
Taking one more bite, I place my napkin over my plate to signal that I, too, am done. I’m still hungry. Famished, actually, given that I accidentally skipped lunch today. But no need to drag this date on longer than necessary. I’ll hoover a bowl of Reese’s Puffs over the sink like a heathen the second I get home if it means cutting out of this early.
Roman drags in a long, slow breath, pinches the bridge of his nose, and turns his attention back to me. I brace myself, preparing for some uncomfortable speech or phony excuse that’ll put us both out of our miseries.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I haven’t done this in a long time . . . the dating thing . . .” He begins to say something again, only to stop and pause. “Look, you seem nice and all, and I know my aunt meant well when she set this up, but I’m just not—”
His speech is cut short by the server, who presents a leather folder with tonight’s bill. Lifting his finger, he motions for the man to wait, and then he retrieves three crisp hundred-dollar bills.
“Keep the change,” he tells the guy, who walks off with raised eyebrows and a subdued smile on his face. Turning back to me, he continues, “My wife died, Margaux. Three years ago. To say it’s been difficult would be the understatement of the century. I’m not really looking to move on. Not anytime soon, anyway. I’m focusing on my business and my daughters, and I don’t really know how someone new would fit into any of that.”
“You don’t have to explain yourself.” I stop him before he can continue since it isn’t necessary.
Exhaling, he leans back, as if he’s relieved, as if all the pressure has been released from the room.
“I’m pretty career focused myself,” I say. “I’m flattered Theodora thought of me in this way, but I think we can both agree we’re not a match.”
Roman tosses back the final few drops of his drink before giving a nod, and he even flashes some semblance of a smile. While he doesn’t seem like a happy man, there’s no denying he’s happy about this.
“I’m sorry about your wife,” I say. And I mean it. He might be a colossal asshole who had me fired, but he’s still a human being sporting a gaping hole where his heart should be. “Your daughters are lucky to have a dad who puts them first.”
I would know.
Our father always put us first, even after my mother left him. We were his everything, his reason for existing. He made that crystal clear. He was hurting, but he still kept room in his heart for us. He never did get over my mother, but it wasn’t for a lack of trying. She was it for him. Everyone else paled in comparison.
Roman returns his wallet to his pocket, an official signal that this date is over.
Reaching for my purse, I rise from the table. “Thank you for dinner.”
“My pleasure,” he says, though he doesn’t mean it, I’m sure. It’s just one of those things you say without thinking.
We leave the dining room together, head past the hostess, and weave through pockets of waiting patrons before hitting the sidewalk.
Stopping next to a newspaper rack, we give each other one final awkward smile and nod. No goodbye, good luck, or words of formality necessary. A moment later, he checks his phone for the millionth time tonight. If we were on a real date, it’d be a red flag, and I’d take it personally.
“Hm,” he says, though he doesn’t elaborate.
His mouth turns down at the sides.
I don’t ask.
It’s not my business, and it doesn’t matter.
“All right then . . . ,” I say to myself before turning to leave. Starting my walk home, I feel almost weightless as the stress of the evening evaporates into the city air. I Ubered here out of necessity earlier, given that time was of the essence, but nothing beats a Friday-night walk in an emptied-out Manhattan. The smells. The sights. The sounds. The people-watching. It’s like being a fly on the wall of the most interesting place in existence. It’s one of my favorite little pastimes, if one can call it that. Margaux always teases that I absorb my surroundings as if by osmosis. “See you around, I guess.”