She wears a fitted red dress under a cream-colored trench coat that drapes elegantly over her frame, the color of the dress illuminating her skin. Red heels click softly against the floor as she approaches, the sound barely audible yet somehow commanding attention.
Vince and Sam don't just look like they've walked out of a high-end fashion campaign—they look like they've invented it. They are that couple, gorgeous and perfectly matched, their chemistry so palpable it practically hums in the air between them. When Vince's hand finds the small of her back, guiding her to her chair, it's with a familiarity that speaks of months spent together, of inside jokes and shared histories that I can only imagine.
Sam notices me watching, and instead of looking away, she offers a small, genuine smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes.
There's something there. It's a flicker of uncertainty, or maybe she's just sizing me up, the man who spends so much time with her boyfriend. In that moment, I can't even be mad.All I feel is an overwhelming sense of inadequacy, of being on the outside looking in at something perfect.
When it's my turn to introduce myself, I try not to sound too awkward.
"I'm Andrew. It's so great to finally meet you, Sam. I've heard wonderful things about you. I've actually watched several of the shows you've worked on, and you're...wow, you're stunning."
Vince's hand lands on my arm, giving it a gentle squeeze. "Alright, Andy, dial it back a bit. You're overwhelming her."
"No I'm not," I mutter, giving him a sideways glance as I slide into my seat.
Sam laughs softly, unfolding her napkin with graceful fingers. "Well, Andy, I think you're beautiful too," she says, her green eyes sparkling with genuine amusement.
I feel my face flush, and for once, I don't deflect. "Thank you."
Ted laughs loudly, cutting into the moment as he unrolls his napkin with unnecessary aggression. "Sam, come on... He's not in your league. Don't inflate his ego. You should take the compliment, you're drop-dead gorgeous. Do you model?"
His utensils clatter noisily as he fumbles for his napkin like a child, nearly knocking his knife off the table.
I sigh, glaring at Ted but choosing not to engage. Ted's lack of table manners is no secret, but tonight, in this fancy restaurant, it feels particularly grating.
Sam shares about modeling to get her through college, her fingers tracing the rim of her wine glass as she speaks, the red polish on her nails catching the candlelight. Her voice is smooth as she describes the grueling hours and constant scrutiny that came with the profession. "It paid the bills," she says with a dismissive wave of her hand, "but I always knew I wanted more."
She talks about how she ended up with a writing career in Los Angeles, her eyes lighting up when she mentions her first script sale, the way it felt to see her words come to life on screen. I findmyself leaning in, captivated by her story, by the way she speaks with such passion and purpose.
Vince, on the other hand, is quietly studying the menu with that neutral, blank expression he always wears when he doesn't want to be part of something. His fingers are curled around the leather-bound menu, his thumb stroking the embossed logo in a slow, repetitive motion. The candlelight catches the silver threads in his hair, and I can't help but notice the tension in his jaw, the way his shoulders are slightly hunched as if bracing for impact.
I follow his lead, trying to stay silent and let the night run its course, my own menu propped up like a shield between me and the awkwardness of the situation. The restaurant buzzes around us, the clinking of silverware and murmur of conversations creating a backdrop to our tense little bubble, and I wonder how much longer I can pretend that everything is fine.
"Why is it taking so long to get serviced?" Ted complains, his gaze darting around the restaurant in search of a waiter.
"Ted, we just sat down. Relax," I say, squeezing his arm again in warning.
Ted retaliates by squeezing my knee under the table.
The pressure sends a jolt of pain through me, a stark contrast to the playful touch Vince once gave me on set that had made me laugh. I rub my knee absently, the ache lingering as Ted finally releases his grip.
"I've already heard plenty about Vince," Ted says, a smirk playing on his lips. "Since, you know, Andrew spends all his time with him instead of his boyfriend."
Vince doesn't even flinch, his eyes still glued to the menu. Sam glances at him briefly before redirecting her attention to Ted, while I tilt my head back, staring at the ceiling to avoid engaging. The ornate plasterwork above us does little to distractfrom the tension at the table, but it's better than facing Ted's tantrum.
"But Sam," Ted continues, "I can't say I know much about you. Tell me more. Are you from around here?"
"I'm originally from Wisconsin," Sam replies, taking a sip of her water. "But I've lived in LA for almost twenty years now."
Appetizers arrive shortly after. The conversation flows between Samantha and Ted, which is fine by me. I sip my tea while the others enjoy their wine, the clinking of their glasses a distant sound.
Sam seems genuinely kind.
Her intelligence shines through her humor and conversation as she talks about her work in writing and producing. She's clearly passionate about her craft, and I understand why Vince is so taken with her. She's everything he could want. She's everything anyone would want. Even in this awkward setting, she somehow manages to draw someone like Ted into a decent conversation.
I'm the only one at the table who hasn't touched my food. Instead, I spend most of the time staring at it, sipping my tea, and praying for the night to end. Ted's laughter pulls me from my thoughts.
"You're funny," Ted remarks to Sam before turning to me. "Did you not get the joke, Andrew?"
