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Silvia’s lips part as she takes in my apartment. “Wow,” she assesses, her eyes combing over the modern decor and then the breathtaking view of Lincoln Park and Lake Michigan beyond.
“Not too shabby, right?” I’ve come to appreciate my accommodations for my time at Rosehill. “But the best part is the kitchen.”
Silvia meets my eyes fully for the first time tonight, and they ask a hundred questions, each beyond my comprehension.
“Come on.” Taking her hand, I lead the way, walking her into the spacious kitchen that looks like it belongs in a four-bedroom family home with square footage in the thousands–not a one-bedroom apartment.
“Do you… know how to cook?” she asks tentatively as she takes in the caramel-colored marble counters and crisp white cabinets. She cringes as if realizing how insulting the question must sound.
I chuckle, unable to help myself. “I’ve learned a few tricks here and there. And seeing as I wasn’t allowed to bring our personal chef to school with me….”
“Right,” Silvia says, a fresh blush coloring her cheeks.
“Have a seat.” I gesture to the high stools tucked beneath the bar-high counter. “You want some wine?”
“Oh, um. No, thank you.” Silvia does as she’s told, sliding onto a stool and following me with her eyes as I start to move around the kitchen.
“Water?” I glance back at her over my shoulder.
“Yes, please.” She gives me a tentative smile.
God, I hate how stiff it feels between us. I know it’s entirely my doing, and it’s a painful contrast to our night at the botanic gardens.
“So, I get to watch you cook for our date?” Silvia asks tentatively as I set her water on the counter in front of her.
“I hope you don’t mind grilled vegetables and steak. That’s about the only thing I can consistently get right.”
Light laughter bubbles past Silvia’s lips, and it’s shocking how good it sounds. The tension in my chest eases slightly.
I try to keep the conversation light as I prepare our meal. But an unspoken tension still lingers between us, and every time I fall silent, Silvia seems to draw into her mind once again. It’s nothing like the same easy connection we found in New York. Not the deeper communication we reached just a few short weeks ago.
And as we sit down to eat, the room falls painfully quiet.
Silvia picks at her meal, only digging in after I suggest she might like something else.
“No, no,” she insists when I ask if she doesn’t like the meal. “It’s wonderful. I guess I’m just not very hungry. Late lunch,” she adds quickly, and her cheeks color as she cuts another bite of steak and chews it.
I can’t take it any longer.
I don’t even know where to begin, but after everything I’ve done to her, I need to come clean. I owe her the truth at the very least—so she can go into our marriage with her eyes wide open.
“Silvia.” I set my fork and knife down, pushing my half-eaten dinner away.
She pauses, glancing up at me before doing the same. And when our eyes meet, she licks her lips nervously.
“We need to talk.”
Her eyes grow wide, like a deer in headlights, and then she nods. “I agree.”
I cock my head slightly at the quaver in her voice. “Did you… want to start?”
She pales visibly. “No, that’s alright. You go first.”
A small part of me wishes she wanted to say her piece, but I know that’s the coward in me, the voice in the back of my mind warring with my guilt and reminding me that once I tell her everything, she’ll never want to be with me.
I nod, dropping my gaze to my lap and swallowing the knot constricting my airway. Taking a fortifying breath, I force myself to look her in the eye. “I have something to tell you, and I know you’re not going to like it.”
Silvia’s brow press together in a delicate frown. “Okay?”
