Instead, he ordered and started chatting with the waitress about her life. In minutes, we learned her name was Saffron, she lived nearby in a cozy loft, and had a dog named Zephyr.
“Let me get your order to the kitchen,” she said softly, trying to end the conversation. “It’s getting late, especially if you want dessert.”
“Thank you,” I said.
“She’s charming,” Thorne remarked as she walked away.
Our food arrived, and we ate in strained silence. I tried to spark memories of our life together—trips we’d taken, dreams we still held—but he wasn’t there. His eyes kept searching for Saffron as she served other tables.
I couldn’t take it anymore.
“Excuse me,” I mumbled, pushing my chair back, my voice shaky. My cheeks burned as I stood, trying not to seem upset.
It’s just in your head, Rowan, I told myself.
But it wasn’t. Thorne was distracted. By her.
Tears came the moment I shut the bathroom door. I gripped the sink, staring at my reflection.
