Page 104 of One Week Hating You
I don’t look at him when I nod yes. I’m staring at the list of appetizers, but I don’t take any of them in. All I can think about is Blake; his kiss, his touch, the two of us bent over the old freezer, on the swing, pressed against the old door, in the big comfy bed, and in the soaker tub – erotic images flood my brain. Yes, we fucked all right. More than once.
When I finally glance up, Peter looks devastated. “Figures,” he says. “You two always had unfinished business. I guess you finally got to see what it would be like with him.”
“I guess,” I say, my voice small. Now I feel bad for Peter.
“I deserve that, I guess,” he says.
He doesn’t ask how it was, and I’m glad. He probably suspects it was great, and doesn’t want confirmation. I could never lie to Peter. If he were to ask, I’d have to admit that it was amazing, that it blew the sex we have out of the water.
But there’s more than amazing sex in life.
He opens his menu quietly and gets lost in the choices. “The risotto is good,” he says. “I always have the veal and capers… it’s amazing.”
Peter’s been here many times with colleagues – this place is close to his work. I’ve never been, and when we first talked about having dinner, I’d told him that I wanted to try something new. A new restaurant for a new start, I suppose. So far, I’m impressed with the atmosphere. We’ll have to see about the food.
“Maybe I’ll try the veal and risotto then,” I say. Honestly, my brain is so foggy tonight, too blurred to make even the smallest decisions, like what to have for dinner.
“Great choice,” he says. He’s still not looking at me. He’s upset. I don’t blame him at all. If he’d just told me that he’d slept with his first love, I wouldn’t be too impressed either.
“So Gabbie is pregnant,” I tell him, shifting the conversation. “Oh… I’m not sure if I was supposed to tell. Keep it between us, okay? She’s only at six weeks.”
His gaze darts up. “Really?” he says, a huge grin stretched across his face. “That’s awesome. I really like that Eli guy.”
Yes, the both of them had gotten along famously when I first introduced them, both of them sharing a passion for architecture. Eli seems like one of those guys who gets along with everyone. So is Peter, in fact.
“Yes, it’s pretty exciting,” I unfold my linen napkin and stretch it over my thighs. “I would have thought I’d be the next one to have a kid, but life has a way of surprising you, doesn’t it?” I say with just a hint of cynicism.
“It does,” he says, clueless. I think he’s already forgotten what he’s done to me. “Maybe you’ll be next,” he adds with a smile.
I’m taken by surprise. “Really?”
“Why not?” he says. “I’ve been thinking about it a lot lately. I know I freaked out a bit, and I still regret that every day, but we’re both going to be thirty soon, and kids…” his words trail off. “I love kids.”
I know he does. I’ve seen him with his niece and nephew. My fickle heart swells at the thought of the two of us with little ones.
Katrina is back with her notepad. “So, what will it be for the lovebirds?”
We smile up at her, and Peter gives her both our orders, like he always does. He’s always been a take-charge type.
We chat about my family and what everyone is up to. I don’t mention Blake. I don’t want to add salt to the wound – I’m not that vindictive. I think he’s suffered enough now, with all that silly Facebook business. It’s time for me to grow up. I tell him all about Corrie’s husband’s motorcycle accident instead.
“Wow, I’ve missed a lot.”
Katrina arrives with our meals and sets them down with a smile. It smells delicious, and my stomach growls in anticipation – I’ve always loved food. I limit myself a bit because I like the way my clothes fit when I’m a little thinner, and I know Peter likes me that way too. I was going to wear my favorite blue dress tonight, the one that makes me feel like a million bucks, but it was a little too tight. I blame it on Momma’s tasty home cooking. “I guess we’re not the only ones with exciting lives,” I joke.
“Enjoy!” Katrina says, and quickly leaves us.
My mouth waters as I lift my fork over my plate, ready to dig in.
Something’s wrong.
Something with the risotto. That familiar smell assaults my senses, that very specific scent that makes me sick. Mushrooms.
“Are there mushrooms in this?” I ask, flabbergasted.
His eyes grow wide. “Oh, I’m so sorry. I forgot.”
“How could you? You know I’m allergic to mushrooms. How could you recommend this?” I scoff. “What?! We’ve only been togethersevenyears! What’s wrong with you?”
