Page 55 of Love Is an Art
She rests her chin on her hand. “That’s interesting. So, you’re less upset that you lost her and more upset that you didn’t suspect anything?”
“Once I found out she cheated, that pretty much put an end to any feelings I had for her. It was pretty decisive.” I guess that’s a positive.
Tessa’s forehead crinkles. “I think it speaks well for you that you didn’t suspect anything. You don’t want to be some crazy, suspicious person.”
But I am now.I even suspect that you’re not an artist. I push the tea light more into the center of the table.
“But if that’s the first time you saw her since you broke up, you handled it well,” she says.
“It’s not the first time. We have mutual friends,” I say. “It helped that you were there.”
“Well, at least now we’ve met the exes. Isn’t that usually sixth date stuff?”
“If not never. But I’m lucky I don’t run into her on a daily basis. We used to work together. She was the in-house lawyer for my fund. Luckily, she’d changed jobs right before I found out she was cheating. I’ll never do that again—date a work colleague.”
Tessa’s eyes widen.
Does she think dating a work colleague is a good idea?
The waitress pours us each our beers, and I take a sip of the frothy, golden liquid.
“Have you ever been to Thailand?” she asks.
That’s an abrupt change of topic. Interesting.
“No. You?”
“It’s on my bucket list.”
“I’ve been to Vietnam and Bali.”
“I went with some girlfriends to Bali. We thought we’d be living in a hut right on the beach, but the time when that was an affordable option was gone. Still, it was great.”
We talk about our travels. A safe topic. All her trips seem to be with girlfriends. Except for a trip to Paris with her ex.
The waitress serves us the dumplings and spring rolls. On the side of the plates are vegetables cut out in a flower decoration, including a carrot rose garnish.
“Now that’s art,” she says. She calls back our server. “This is amazing. Who did this?”
“Malee. She was in Thailand for June and took a course.”
“Chaba must be so proud,” she says and then turns to me. “Chaba is the owner, and Malee is her daughter. Malee is going to Fordham, but she helps out on weekends.”
The waitress nods. “Chaba is proud of everything.”
“You know the owner?” I ask.
“Miranda and I have closed down this restaurant enough times that we met the family who owns it. Lot of nights hanging out at the MoMA,” she says. “Occupational hazard.”
I’m impressed. Definitely different from Paisley.
“So did you ever date a work colleague?” I ask.
She holds her drink in midair and pauses, just as she was about to take a sip. Then she carefully places it back down.
There’s definitely something there. There’s that moment when you’re investigating an investment, and there’s a slight pause before the person you’re interviewing answers. And then you know … that the answer you’re about to get isn’t the whole truth. And that somehow you have to win this person over to get the real story.
She stares at her glass.
