Page 36 of Beyond Oblivion

We rode together in the truck hand and hand, chatting about the day and a couple of the tats I did that were particularly interesting and complicated. It was always good with her, though. She understood everything I said without further explanation. I intertwined my fingers with hers while we talked, feeling especially grateful that I’d been lucky enough to have married my favorite person. Most people couldn’t live and work together and still have a million things to say.

When we arrived at Biasetti’s, the sidewalk was already cluttered with hungry people, hovering like buzzards circling a carcass. Lachlan and Becca were among them, happily loitering hand in hand, with Becca staring up at him with adoration in her eyes—a mystery, since Lachlan was unironically wearing a fedora.

“Oh, they look busy,” Camille said as I parallel parked with the precision of a man who onlyoccasionallygrazes a curb.

I hopped out, jogged around to her side, and opened the door—because, yes, chivalry isn’t dead, it just drives a truck now. I took her hand, guiding her across the street while I threw a‘stop right there, whiskey dick’glare at a car creeping toward us.Not today, Prius. Not on my watch.

Becca was all sunshine and smiles, launching herself at Camille like a golden retriever that just found its favorite tennis ball. They hugged it out, pure serotonin in human form.

Meanwhile, I locked in a handshake with Lachlan. Firm. Manly. Just two dudes being... masculine. Alpha. I was still salty he’d called me the tiniest Maddox.

“How long’s the wait?” I asked, bracing for the usualtwenty minutes if we’re luckynonsense.

Lachlan smirked. “We should be next. I made a booking, mate. Reservations,” he clarified in his fake American accent.

Of course he did. The man was smoother than buttered silk.Fucking Aussies, man.

“Who’s your dialect coach? Because fire him,” I teased.

Becca grinned up at him. “He’s organized like that. A little anal-retentive if you will.”

Camille, bless her soul,lost it.A full-on cackle burst out of her, the kind of laugh where she tried to cover her mouth with both hands but still failed miserably. Hearing her laugh like that? It hit me harder than a warm blanket on a snow day. I’d heard it twice in one day, and damn, it felt good. This was what she needed. Whatweneeded.

Five minutes later, Lachlan’s reservation skills had us seated at a prime table, something only the country club folk would know to ask for and what it meant when you were seen there. Drinks arrived with the efficiency of an Olympic relay team, and I was halfway through my frosty pint, living the dream, when Becca’s story about Cassidy’s earring reveal screeched to a halt.

Her eyes widened, locking onto something over my shoulder, like she’d just spotted the ghost of Christmas Past.

I turned, jumping at the sight of Madison, mascara streaks down her cheeks, her hands twitching, scrambling for a place to rest.

I turned to Camille, cringing. “I knew I should’ve brought my cross.”

“I’m so sorry,” she blurted out, her words tripping over each other. “Can I talk to you outside for a second, Trent? It’s important.”

I felt like I glitched for a moment before my mind rebooted. “Oh myfuck. Maddie, what the hell are you doing here?”

Yeah, I said it. Out loud. In Biasetti’s. A classy little joint where the Eakins upper crust types come to enjoy over-priced food while surrounded by people they want to believe aren’t doing better than them—nottelenovelas in real-time.

Conversations fizzled. Forks froze mid-stab.

Camille gently squeezed my thigh. “Trent,” she warned.

I tossed my napkin to the center of the table. “How did you even know I was here?” I asked Madison, trying to resist the urge to yell. “Do you realize howcrazythis looks?”

Madison wrung her hands together like she was trying to twist the awkwardness into a balloon animal. “Please believe me. I’m sorry, but you didn’t respond to my texts. I couldn’t get through when I called, and then I realized you blocked me, and… you need to hear what I have to say, and it can’t wait, Trenton!”

Not the full name. I waited for her to tell me to sit in the corner and think about what I’d done.

“Nothing you have to say to me is more important than my dinner with my wife and friends. Go home! Lach? Call her dad or something, Jesus Christ!”

Somewhere, a fork clinked against a plate. I could feel the entire restaurant tuning in, because apparently, this wasDinner and a Show: The Trenton Shitstorm Special.

“I’m pregnant!” Madison wailed.

I blinked. Twice. A third time. Brain buffering. “Okay?Tell your boyfriend!” I begged, hands flying up like I was trying to ward off a swarm of bees.

“It’s nothis, Trenton,” she insisted, wide-eyed and trembling.

I sat there, stunned, mouth slightly open like a malfunctioning robot. Then I looked around. Every pair of eyes in Biasetti’s locked onto me, some horrified, others brimming with delicious schadenfreude, like they’d just been served a heaping slice of scandal pie.

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