Page 63 of False God

But no one has ever tried toproveme wrong.

Ivy taps a pen against the notepad she’s holding. “Tell them it’s bloody brilliant probably.”

I’ve never been to the garden Charlie is talking about. But there’s a flicker of warmth in my chest, as if I were single-handedly responsible for its creation, hearing that assessment of a project that sounds similar to the one I just completed from a stranger’s perspective.

Maybe someone in Chicago would say the same after visiting Claremont Park.

That’s part of my problem, I think. No matter how happy I am with a completed job, it’s not something I created forme. I want to leave something behind that matters tootherpeople, that makes the world a more beautiful place. I’m always too invested to see it objectively, and the opinions I hear are from people who care about preserving my feelings.

Charlie nods as if he knew Ivy’s answer before she spoke it.

I wonder what he would have done if she’d called the park a waste of space.

“I’d like the rib eye, please,” he requests.

“And I’d like the cod,” I say, then hand her my menu. “Thanks.”

“Excellent choices. They’ll be right out.”

Ivy walks away, and the butterflies are back in my stomach. Flapping around and making their presence known.

I feel like I should thank Charlie, but I’m not sure how to vocalize it. So, I take a sip from the wineglass Ivy just refilled, then ask, “Do you bring your dates to restaurants closer to Newcastle?”

“I don’t date much,” he answers.

“Lack of options?” I make a sympathetic face.

He smirks before leaning forward on his forearms. “What about you? Do you date much?”

“It … varies. I travel a fair amount for work. My last project kept me in Chicago for almost a year. That can make relationships challenging.”

“So, you’ve never been in one?”

“Wow. You’re not going to ask what my favorite color is or something first?”

“I don’t care what your favorite color is,” he replies. “No offense,” he tacks on as an afterthought.

I roll my eyes.

Charlie waits expectantly.

I clear my throat. “I’ve been in a few. One was serious.”

“Callahan Winston?”

I nod. He’s astute, not that it’s much of a surprise. His intelligent gaze reminds me of a hawk’s.

“What happened?”

I exhale, rubbing my index finger against the stem of my wineglass. It’s thin. Breakable. Fragile in an obvious way. That’s how I feel about baring my soul.

Charlie is staring at me steadily, not allowing any opportunity to hide or look away. His blatant lack of boundaries is jarring. Most people treat me with deference.

His unwavering stare makes it clear the only way we’ll avoid this subject is if I insist on it—something no one else has done.

I can’t decide if I resent or respect him for it.

“We dated for almost two years, right after I moved back to New York for college. I’d started at Yale, then transferred to Cornell when I decided to focus on landscape architecture. Cal had stayed in the city, attending Columbia. We’d grown up together, had the same friends forever, but never really hung outjust the two of us before. Itwaslike falling. It just … happened, gradual and easy, like it was supposed to all along. And we became that perfect couple everyone assumed was meant to be and would last forever.”

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