Page 15 of Wreckage and Rain

“I’ll bet.”

Summer orders the risotto.

Then she starts asking Cheyenne questions.

Her sister. Her hometown. How she got into the business.

Each one is soft and polite. Nothing she says is rude. Nothing she says can be challenged.

But there is something under every word, packed in so tightly I can feel it without knowing how to reach it.

Cheyenne answers just as carefully.

I sit between them with my wine and say almost nothing.

I should reach for Summer’s hand. I should tell her I’m glad she’s here. I should say something that puts me beside my wife instead of leaving her alone across the table from whatever this has become.

Instead, I wait too long.

The longer I wait, the harder it is to speak without making the silence obvious.

Under the table, I put my hand on Summer’s thigh.

I need some sign that we are still us. Something familiar I can touch and have touch me back.

She takes my wrist, lifts my hand from her leg, and places it on my own.

She never looks at me.

The movement is quiet enough that Cheyenne probably doesn’t see it.

It lands harder than if Summer had slapped me.

After that, Cheyenne and I stop looking directly at each other.

Whatever had been easy before Summer walked in is gone. We keep talking around the empty space it left, explaining risk allocation too loudly, trying to turn the evening back into the working dinner I said it was.

It doesn’t work.

Eventually, Cheyenne reaches for her bag.

“It was great seeing you, Summer.”

Her voice is warm. Professional. Easy.

Summer gives her the same polished smile.

Cheyenne leaves.

The moment she is gone, Summer picks up her bag.

I’m still trying to get my napkin off my lap when she starts through the restaurant.

“Summer.”

She doesn’t stop.

I throw cash onto the table without checking the amount and follow her outside.