Page 108 of The False Flat

But now, as I sat and picked at a Cowboy Rib Eye Steak, the anticipation had amplified my nerves and made my tongue as thick as the Lobster Mashed Potatoes I’d ordered. I was afraid that if I tried to speak, it would all come out as one unintelligible blob, conveying a brain abnormality instead of the sentiments of my heart.

But the lights were perfectly dim, a combination of flickering gas lampposts and curtains of twinkling lights raining down all the way from the glass ceiling that appeared to be miles above us. I needed to do it now. I inhaled and counted to three under my breath.

“Grant?”

“Hmmm?”

“I—”

Something was off. His body sat across from me, but his mind was somewhere else. He glanced at the water cascading over the rock, snaking between elephant ears and ferns and all other manner of vegetation that I didn’t have names for. He wasn’t looking at me.

I was competing with water for his attention, and so I stopped, waiting for a better moment.

He didn’t notice that I’d cut myself off. Another bad sign.

Now, the meal was over, and we were walking along the water’s edge, past people taking pictures with their phones, my arm in his, slowly heading for Bravo Gelato.

I’d do it there. “I love you” over a trio of scoops. Two spoons. One bowl. Zero waterfalls.

And I’d tell Grant what I hadn’t told anyone in years. His face would widen into a grin that would make his absurd, beautiful mustache stand away from his lip in delight. He’d sweep me into his arms and loudly proclaim “Finally!” as he spun me in the air, carried me to our room, and threw me on the king-size bed, where we’d make love all night. Then, the next morning, after we were blissfully sore, we’d eat croissants on the balcony overlooking the atrium, like we were lovers in Paris, sipping green tea in plush, white bathrobes.

Yes, I would tell him over gelato. I smiled at my impending triumph. His detachment would fade when he knew I was all in. We would be happy.

But on the way, he stopped on the indoor sidewalk, next to the ridged trunk of a palm tree.

He hesitated.

Grant never hesitated.

He took my hand.

His eyes burrowed into mine.

He swallowed.

His face was not the face of a Parisian lover. His face held regret. “I wanted to tell you something over dinner, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it.”

He looked back at the damn waterfall.

I had no idea how hard I’d been holding on to this romantic fantasy until the look on his face and the tone in his voice threatened it.

The edges of his mouth were pulled down in a deep frown, like each corner was just barely holding on to the weight of what he had to say.

Blood rushed through my ears, or maybe that was the sound of the waterfall.

Why’d they keep it so hot in here?

And how had I missed the signs? I’d been so preoccupied with plans to tell him how much he meant to me, and his plans were to tell me that things were over between us. Why else would he have that look on his face? But it didn’t make sense. Just days ago, he’d told me he loved me.

I could fix this. I had to fix this. I hadn’t been open enough with him. He didn’t know how I felt. I hadn’t said “I love you,” but I was ready. Ready to scream it loud enough for anyone and everyone passing by to hear, for all the people in the rooms with interior atrium views to look down on us and witness.

We needed to get to the gelato, the cool, creamy gelato. Everything would look different over ice cream. I pulled at his arm, tried to move toward the—which way was it?

“Penelope.” The way he said my name made me think there was a part of him that didn’t want to say it. And it was the first time I didn’t want to hear him say it.

And then my mind caught up with my body; this was more than a breakup.

My ears struggled to parse the words as the tone behind them deafened me.