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“Where did you get those awful shoes?” he says.
I glance down at my feet. They’re the same shoes I’ve been wearing for the last few weeks. They’re the only ones that don’t hurt these days. Notwanting to agitate Trent further, I smile obligingly at him. “You’re right. They aren’t chic. I’ll just trade them out. Be right back.”
“We need to hurry,” he responds, impatiently tapping his fingers on his leg.
Even though it’s painful, I shove my poor, engorged toes into my very expensive, very high, very uncomfortable heels. Gah, it’s been too long since I tried to walk in these things.
I almost change back to my other shoes, but I don’t want to disappoint Trent. He’s already upset at being late. I get it. I hate being late, too.
My meaty sausage toes and I make it back into the living room. Trent glances at my feet before acknowledging the change with a sneer. He turns to open my front door, but before we can leave, he says, “You could have at least cleaned up your place since you were expecting a guest.”
My stride falters at his words, but I recover and keep walking toward the door.
As we rush down the hall, I cringe at the pain in my toes. Then I see the stairs. Those awful freaking stairs. But Trent is speedwalking at this point.
I don’t want to slow him down.
He’s jogging down the stairs. There is no way for me to keep up. I go down as quickly as possible and stumble on the fourth step. I have to grab the railing for support.
Trent looks back at me. “You need to be more careful, Liz.” Then, he continues on his way down, barely pausing.
When I make it down to the bottom, Trent is waiting. His car is parked right in front of my building in a no-parking zone. Ah, now everything makes sense.
He was anxious because he was illegally parked. He didn’t want to get towed.
Grateful to have an excuse for his odd behavior, I slide into the waiting front seat. Trent closes the door behind me.
As he gets into the driver’s seat, I put my hand on the crook of his arm. “I’m sorry that you had to wait for me. I didn’t expect to fall asleep like that. I must have been more tired than I knew.”
He looks down at my hand and then at me. “Of course, I forgive you. Maybe next time, set an alarm,” he says soothingly, but I detect an edge to his voice.
I get the feeling he’s still mad, and I’m kind of surprised. He’s been nothing but understanding since we started hanging out again.
“Is everything okay?” I ask.
“Yes, why do you ask?”
“You seem on edge, that’s all.”
His jaw clenches, and I’m not sure he’s going to answer me. Then, he smiles pleasantly at me. “Not at all. Everything is fine,” he says curtly.
Still wanting to salvage the evening that started out so roughly, I ask, “Are you going to tell me where we’re going?”
Without taking his eyes off the road, he responds. “I’m taking you to an Italian restaurant I enjoy. Very cozy, intimate.”
I try to hide the disappointment from my face. I’m not supposed to be eating carb-heavy meals right now, doctor’s orders. She cautioned me that it may raise my blood sugar too much. I’m confused because Trent knows that.
I decide not to say anything, but he glances at me when I don’t respond. “You were probably going to eat a salad anyway, right? I’msure you are concerned about gaining too much weight during your pregnancy.”
“Actually, no, I’m not concerned at all,” I respond, confused. “The doctor doesn’t have any concerns about my weight, nor do I.”
Though I try to hide it, I can hear just the edge of anger peeking out from my voice. What an incredibly disrespectful comment.
“I didn’t mean to imply anything. You’re perfect just as you are,” he consoles soothingly.
I lean back into the soft gray leather seats and watch the road as we drive the rest of the way in silence. What the hell is going on with Trent?
We arrive at the restaurant about fifteen minutes late for our reservation. Trent is looking at his watch in agitation. I know that it bothers him that we missed our check-in time.
