Page 324 of End Game

“Shocking.”

We’re at one of those steakhouse chains that manages to feel expensive without being so expensive that I need to refinance the house to order dinner.

Low lighting.

Actual tablecloths.

A server who somehow appears exactly when we need something and disappears before conversation gets awkward.

I wanted nice.

Not anniversary nice.

Not apology nice.

Not please notice how romantic your husband can be nice.

Just somewhere I could make a reservation, put on a shirt with buttons, and take my wife out without another person at the table.

That sounds more possessive than I mean it.

Maybe six months ago, it would have been.

Tonight, it’s simpler.

I wanted time with her.

Nobody needed to be excluded for me to want that.

That distinction would probably have saved me several months of emotional constipation if I’d figured it out earlier.

Cami sets down the menu. “You’re thinking.”

“I do that occasionally.”

“Dangerous.”

“I manage.”

She narrows her eyes. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“That’s bullshit.”

I smile.

Across the restaurant, somebody drops silverware. My attention shifts automatically toward the sound, assesses it, dismisses it.

No emergency.

No one choking.

No one collapsing.

Just a fork.

Occupational hazard.