Lobster Thermidor
Poppy
“You’re breaking up with me?”
Across the table, Ryan frowns. “Keep your voice down.”
“Keep my—”
“Poppy, please. Don’t make this difficult.”
“But...” My head is spinning as I stare at his handsome face, the one I was starting to... “I thought you were proposing. You had a box.” My throat feels uncomfortably tight. He scoffs, so I press on, “From Tiffany’s. I saw it in your sock drawer.”
Last week, when I slept over at his SoHo loft. He was in the shower, and I couldn’t help myself. I picked it up, nearly opened it, then remembered that I’d want my reaction in the pictures online to be genuine, so I booked a nail appointment instead, and not-so-patiently waited for him to set up this dinner. When he said that he wanted to go to Pastiche, my father’s most famous restaurant, I thought it was a done deal.
“Jesus. You looked through my things?”
“It was a little hard to miss.”
He’s scowling now. “I can’t believe you.”
“You’re breaking up with me because I looked in your sock drawer?” I know I’m being dense on purpose, but it’s that or break down entirely. We might be in a corner booth, but it’s still a small—and exclusive—restaurant facing Central Park. I start to wipe mysweat-slick hands on my dress, then remember it’s vintage Valentino and freeze. I jiggle my foot instead.
“Why the hell would I be proposing? We’ve barely been together five months.”
“I... I don’t know, I just thought—”
“People don’t do shit like that. Be serious, Poppy.”
I press my lips together.People, as in normal people who aren’t me. People who don’t jump in headfirst and think later. “Why?”
“I have to think about my future, you know?”
“Ryan—”
He gives me a look, as if I’m annoying him with all the questions. He’s the one who took me out to dinner. What did he expect? A quiet meal by himself after I fled, humiliated?
“I mean, what do you want me to say?” He wipes his mouth with his napkin; throws it on the table. “You’re fun. But you’re not exactly wife material.”
I’ve never been punched in the stomach, but I imagine this is what it feels like. The air leaving me in a rush, no space between my ribs to take in more. I glance at the other diners and see a few interested stares. We’ve been spotted: Ryan McCabe, New York Knicks basketball star, and his influencer girlfriend, @itspoppywinfield.
Well—ex-girlfriend, now.
Memories of the past few months well up. Outings with the wives and girlfriends of his teammates. Meeting his parents in his hometown. Blowing him a kiss for good luck as I sat courtside. Going out clubbing and ending up back at his place for good sex—okay,acceptablesex—and egg sandwiches the next morning. I wasn’t a perfect girlfriend, maybe, but not wife material?
My eyes smart, tears threatening. I did this to myself—I always do—but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t sting. I press the heel of my hand against my nose. I wish I hadn’t started with a glass of champagne. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He lowers his voice. “I’m about to sign a contract extension. I don’t have time for distractions.”
There’s pity in his voice, and I want to flee, but I’m stuck inside the booth, and the leather seat is too slippery for me to get a grip. If I tried, I’d end up on the floor. It would bring the dining room to a halt.
“That’s what I am to you? A distraction?”
He shrugs, grimacing, as if to say,Your words, not mine. He reaches into his suit pocket, bringing out the robin’s-egg blue box and sliding it across the table. “I hope we can stay friendly.”
Fingers numb, I pick up the Tiffany’s box. There’s a pair of earrings nestled inside, delicate and expensive. They must have cost a couple thousand, at least. Five months and a connection that was apparently a distraction to him, reduced to a few impersonal stones.
I wonder if I choked on my first bite of crostini, and this is hell.
