Page 143 of Every Beautiful Mile

I sigh with audible relief when the waiter interrupts the tension.

As we eat, our conversation easily shifts to lighter topics. He asks about my dad, who never localized his menu. I ask about his bartending skills, which he’s been working on. Talking to him is like it’s always been—good, familiar, and so easy it makes my soul ache.

In that moment, I know I’ve missed out on one of the best things I could have had in life.

Fifty-six

When our dinner is gone, and a female blues singer takes a small stage with a gritty, soulful voice, the dim lights and soft, sexy music make me feel things I don’t want to. It reminds me of the nights at Ethan’s restaurants, and my heart splinters in all the ways it paints a picture of a scene I’ll never be part of again.

He leans back casually.

“Tell me something I’ve missed from the last six months.”

I regret leaving Maine the way I did.

I’ve missed you every day for six months.

My mom thinks I love you.

I might love you.

I do love you.

I love Ethan.

I know it now.

I know it too late.

Sitting across from him, I experience a completely new kind of miserable heartbreak. It isn’t the devastatingly shattering kind that hurts until I’m numb like Travis caused. It’s the kind where my heart stays intact just enough for it to dully ache every time it beats in my chest.

Worse is pretending I don’t feel it.

“Hmm. Well, I’m not so horrible at making coffee anymore,” I say.

He vibrates with a small laugh, and amusement covers his face. Like he knows how tortured I feel, and he’s enjoying it. It’s as cruel as the small talk we’re forcing ourselves to make.

I lift my wine to my lips.

“What about you? Tell me something I’ve missed.”

“I got a dog.”

I snort. “I didn’t expect that, but I can see it. In front of that fireplace or laying by the river.”

“He does love the river.” He nods and smiles, the corners of his eyes crinkling.

Without warning, I hear myself ask, “So how did you meet your… her?”

If I’m going to walk around with a knife in my soul, it might as well plunge all the way through.

“My dog? It’s a he.” His smugness is as permanent as the nose on his face. I don’t love him, I hate him.

I narrow my eyes. “You know who I’m talking about.”

He pauses, long and methodically, in a way that feels like a bomb is about to drop. “She came into my restaurant.”

He props his elbows on the table and lifts his chin. Like he knows how loyal his good looks are to him in that white shirt rolled up on his forearms.

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