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“Why’s that?” Thomas asks.
“Because I can’t decide between the chicken and waffles pizza with Vermont maple syrup, or the meatball sub pizza. But if I had a boyfriend, I could force him to order one, and then I could eat half of each and die happy.”
After a moment, he sets down his menu. “I’ll be your boyfriend. For the purpose of this meal.”
I give him a narrow-eyed look, and he gazes levelly back. “Relax, Mac. I offered to split pizza with you. I’m not trying to bring you home for Thanksgiving dinner.”
The very thought of that is laughable.
“Okay then,” I say, stacking my menu atop his. “I accept your pizza-splitting offer. For the duration of this meal, we are effectively going steady. Which means I get a sip of your drink.” I reach over and pick up his cocktail, which looks delicious.
It’s good. Tequila and something a little spicy. But it’s not as good as my blueberry-lemon vodka cocktail, which he helps himself to with a grimace.
Looking around at the table, everyone by their significant others, heads bent over menus, debating options, I’m forced to admit that Thomas had been maybe a little right when he’d warned Collette and Jon that me being the lone single person might . . . suck.
I would have made the best of it; it’s not like it’s my first time being the only one flying solo amidst a flock of love birds. But if Thomas had been here with Anna? My stomach knots up just thinking about it.
Yikes.
I need to ground myself here. He and Anna may not have worked out, but some day, he’s going to meet another Anna, another girl who’s not Van Halen-loving with blue hair, someone who would never wear bikini bottoms to work because she forgot to do laundry.
Wanting to remind myself of our differences, I turn towards him. “So that I can know what ghosts of your past I’m up against in our newfound relationship. What’s your longest relationship?”
He turns towards me as well, an elbow on the back of his chair. “Ever?”
“Ever.”
He thinks about this. “Not counting my intense crush on Lara Croft as a kid?”
I shake my head. “Has to be a real person.”
Thomas doesn’t hesitate. “That would be Janie.”
My easy smile slips and I feel blood leave my cheeks. How had I forgotten?
“Ah,” he says lightly. “I see from that oh shit expression, you’ve heard about her.”
“Jon mentioned her,” I say, since I’m a terrible liar and have no poker face.
Thomas shoots his oblivious brother an irritated glare across the table. “Did he?”
I nod. “He said you were almost engaged.”
“ ‘Almost’ would be the key word there. I never proposed.”
“But you were planning on it?”
Thomas spins his cocktail glass with a frown. “Yeah. Yeah, I was.”
Our conversation derails as the server comes around to take orders, but even after I’ve ordered my chicken and waffles pizza—Thomas got the meatball sub—I’m still wrapped up in my thoughts about Thomas and a woman I’ve never met.
“Just do it,” he says in resignation.
“What?”
“Ask whatever you’re thinking about Janie.”
The server places a couple of focaccia on the table and Thomas reaches for it, placing a piece on my bread plate before his own, as though it’s the most natural thing in the world. He’s good at this boyfriend thing.
“Are you sure?” I ask, nibbling at a piece of the bread.
He nods.
“Okay, well. I guess I’m wondering, how, after going through something like that, you still want to do it again some day. If it were me, that would be the ultimate proof that people aren’t supposed to find just the one person, and settle down forever.”
Thomas doesn’t get defensive. Instead he seems to think my question over as he dunks a piece of bread in the oil, chews thoughtfully, before answering. “Did Jon mention that Janie left me because she got back together with her ex?”
I nod.
“Okay, so. They’re still together. Married, living in London. Twin girls, and a boy on the way, at least as of her last Christmas card. Viewed differently, isn’t that proof that two people can be happy together? It’s just that I wasn’t meant to be the other half in that particular scenario.”
“You get Christmas cards from your ex?” I ask, appalled.
He shrugs. “We’re friendly.”
“Huh. When we break up, you’ll be getting no Christmas card from me.”
“Not a problem. Knowing our luck, we’ll continue to run into each other over and over until the end of time,” Thomas says, smiling.
“Too true,” I say. “I have no doubt that someday I’ll have my sketchbook in Central Park and I’ll see you walk by pushing some high-tech stroller with your shiny-haired wife—no blue in her hair—beside you wearing some sort of chic dress. You guys are probably coming from some museum where you have annual passes that you actually use.”
