I set my fork down. “That people who separate can find their way back to each other. That time apart doesn't mean it's over.”
He holds my gaze. “I didn't say any of that.”
“You didn't have to.”
My phone buzzes in my purse, but I have no urgency to answer it. It’s probably just Olivia checking in anyway.
I finish my linguine while Zach tells me about all the things he has to do to prepare for preseason, and how excited he is to still be playing with Reese and Dax. Somehow, they all managed to get on the same team in the draft. He said it wasn't planned, but it feels like it was.
I'm leaning in.
I catch myself and sit back, reaching for my wine.
“Dessert?” the waiter asks, appearing out of nowhere.
“No, I—”
“She'll have the chocolate torte,” Zach says. “And I'll have a fork.”
The waiter nods, walking away.
I can’t help myself; I give Zach a little nudge with my foot under the table. “Why did you order dessert for me?”
“Because I know you wanted it.”
“Didn’t you already have the torte?”
“I did, but you know me. When I like something, I always want a little more.”
When the torte arrives, it looks delicious—not that I’d tell Zach that. He takes his fork, and our hands bump as we go for the same corner.
“Sorry, Honeycomb. This is yours.”
He pulls his fork back and lets me take the first bite, watching me closely.
“It’s delicious,” I admit.
He grins. “Knew you’d like it.” He takes a couple of bites before leaning back into the booth. “Not the best thing I’ve ever tasted, but it’s close.”
I ignore the innuendo in his words. I know what he wants me to take from that, and I refuse to let it affect me.
“I'm glad you came out tonight,” he says.
I frown. “Because standing out on the balcony trying to look into my roommightbe legally considered stalking?”
He smiles faintly, but this time it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
“No, because when things get hard, you disappear. You shut everyone out and convince yourself you’re better off alone.” His thumb traces the stem of his martini glass. “And maybe part of me was hoping that if you came out tonight, it meant you weren’t doing that.”
I hate it. I hate that he knows me better than myself at times.
“That’s dramatic,” I mutter, because deflection is easier than honesty.
“Is it?” he asks quietly. “Because every time you choose not to disappear, I feel like maybe I haven’t lost you yet, even if you’re threatening my life over pasta.”
The waiter drops the bill, and Zach’s already signed it off before I’ve finished my mouthful of torte.
“Zach. You don't have to pay for my dinner,” I say. “I'm happy to pay for myself.”
