Page 40 of Wished

Souffle Au Fromage, a cheese soufflé so light and airy that when you wrap your lips around the fork, you can’t help but smile at the blend of parmesan and gruyere dancing with nutmeg.

There are also platters of honey-glazed carrots, potatoes dauphinoise thick with cream, gruyere, and a hint of thyme, and a loaf of herby bread with pats of hand-churned herb butter shaped like hearts.

I get a lick of satisfaction when I smear the butter across my crusty piece of bread, obliterating the heart.

I glance at Max, feeling mellow from the food and the wine. We haven’t spoken for the past fifteen minutes. The chef and Madame Blinken set the table, delivered the dishes, and then disappeared back toward the kitchen. Since they left, the only noises have been our silverware scraping against the plates, an awkwardly cleared throat, and the soft crooning of the jazz music.

“Do you mind if I ask you a question?” I ask.

“Yes,” Max says, spearing a cut of filet mignon with his fork.

I take a bite of the bread, savoring the rosemary and thyme flavor of the butter. “I have to get it off my chest.”

The candlelight glints off his fork as he takes another bite of his steak. “You don’t, actually. You could leave it there.” He looks up at me. “I’ve left things on my chest for years.”

I drop my bread to my plate and wipe my hands on my cloth napkin. “Doesn’t it get heavy?”

“Not really.” He reaches for his wineglass and runs his hand over the stem.

I stare at his long fingers, at the half-moons of his fingernails and the gold signet ring on his right hand. I find I’m becoming oddly obsessed with his hands. Or, more likely, I can’t stop replaying the scenes I saw in my mind, when his hands were tracing over my bare skin or gripping my thighs or holding my wrists above my head. His hands did all sorts of wonderfully creative things.

I have to ask.

“I’m going to ask.”

“I wish you wouldn’t.”

“How much do you remember of our marriage? How well do you like me? Do we get along? How did we meet?”

He lifts his wineglass, casually holding it in front of him. The ruby liquid sloshes around the glass as he slowly circles the stem in his hands. “You don’t want to know.”

I lean forward. “I really do.”

He sets his wineglass back on the table without taking a sip. “I called my best friend today.”

I lean back, settling onto the cushioned red velvet. My dress slips over my thighs as I shift, the silk fabric cool. It feels similar to a soft exhale rushing over my skin, and I shiver in response.

“Do you know what she said?” Max asks, watching me.

“No.”

“She said, ‘Max who?’” He gives me a hard-eyed look. “A few months ago I asked her to marry me. I’ve loved her for years. Today she had no idea who I was. I apologized for calling. Told her I’d made a mistake. Your wish did that.”

He’s talking about Fiona Abry. There’s a pinching in my chest and a pressure at the backs of my eyes. I suppose I didn’t realize how badly Max was still hung up on Fiona.

“You still love her? Even though she married someone else?” I ask, looking down at the remnants of my filet and the dark, peppery wine reduction.

“I’ll always love her,” he says. “That isn’t a question. Even if I live in this ... world.” He gestures around the room set for seduction. It seems garish now instead of romantic.

“Even if she doesn’t love you?” I ask, curious and surprised he’s actually talking to me. But more, I want to know, is Max like me? Loving someone who doesn’t love him back.

“She does love me,” he says. Then, considering the plate of oysters resting on slowly melting ice, he adds, “Or she did.”

Apparently, he’s not like me at all. He loves Fiona, and she loves him.

I frown. “If she loved you, why did she turn you down? Why would anyone turn you down?”

He grins at me—a smile tinged with irony. “Because we didn’t have that magic spark. Or, I suppose, a magic necklace.”

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