Page 63 of Fake As Puck
“How was the flight?” I ask, reaching for her suitcase.
“Good. Long. The usual.”
“That’s good.”
We walk toward the parking garage, and I’m hyperaware of everything about her. The way her dress moves when she walks. The sound of her sandals on the concrete. The fact that she’s wearing rings I don’t remember seeing before.
“You look good,” I say, because it’s true and because not saying it feels like not acknowledging the effort she’s clearly put in.
“Thanks,” she says, like it’s nothing. Like she didn’t spend time and money making sure she’d look exactly this good. “You, too.”
But she doesn’t look at me when she says it, and I can’t figure out if that means something or nothing.
“You hungry?” I ask when we get to the car. “We could grab dinner somewhere.”
“Sure. I could eat.”
I drive us to a restaurant on the waterfront. It’s nothing fancy, but nice enough that it feels like more than just grabbing food. The kind of place where couples go to catch up and reconnect.
Which is what we’re supposed to be doing.
We get a table by the window with a view of the Sound, and for the first few minutes, the conversation flows like it always has. Easy. Natural. Like no time has passed at all.
She tells me about that freelance job she landed writing content for a sustainable fashion company and how they’re hiring her for more work. I tell her about training camp that starts next week. We talk about the weather, the restaurant, the way the light looks on the water.
Safe topics. Neutral ground.
But there are loaded silences between the jokes. Moments where I catch her looking at me like she’s trying to figure something out, and I wonder if she can see right through me.
If she knows I’ve been thinking about her every day for three weeks.
If she knows I’ve been sleeping like shit and working out like a maniac and avoiding her room.
“So,” she says, taking a sip of her wine, “tell me about this wedding. What’s the vibe?”
“Fancier than Reed’s. It’s a buddy from college. He comes from money, so it’s going to be the full production. Black tie, sit-down dinner, live band.”
“Sounds fun.”
“It should be. You’ll like the venue. It’s right on the coast, about two hours south of here.”
“Are we driving?”
“Yeah. Road trip down Friday, wedding Saturday, drive back Sunday.”
“Got it.”
She nods like she’s taking mental notes, and I realize she’s treating this like a business meeting. Professional. Detached.
Which is exactly what this should be.
So why does it bother me so much?
“New dress?” I ask, because I can’t help myself.
She glances down at the dress she’s wearing like she’s forgotten what she put on this morning.
“This? No, I’ve had it forever.”
