Page 58 of If We Were Young

“To who?”

“Myself.”

I glugged some wine, and the waiter leapt forward from his perch on one of the other tables.

“You like?” he asked.

Matthew looked at me and I looked at him and we both smiled. Stupid smiles that absorbed half of our faces. “Ho Fun,” we both said at once.

The waiter nodded and shook his head like he remembered us for reasons not that fond and walked away pocketing his notebook as he launched into a tirade of Mandarin as he entered the kitchen.

Alone again, I restarted. “Why has it taken five years for you to get divorced?”

“Money.”

“Why did you take on Supersaver Foods?”

“You.” He grabbed his chance to question me. “You didn’t know why I was angry that night. Why didn’t you punch me? Question me?” I shrugged and his lips quirked. “I forget your articulation disability.”

I shrugged again and gripped my glass tighter.

“You never had that at uni. In class yes, but not the rest of the time. Why?”

“You.”

My heart raced with the speed of a runaway train in the Midwest during a bad cowboy movie. Choo choo puff puff.

“Why can’t you be friends with me again?”

I stumped him. He looked at me, blue and slate, unfathomable.

When he talked again, he whispered, “Why did you get married so soon?”

I shook my head. Any question apart from that one.

“Are you staying in Scotland when this is over?”

“Yes.”

A sting in my eyes made me blink.

“What’s your apartment like?”

His lips curve. “Boring. Grey and mustard. What’s your house like?”

“My mother’s.”

“Why do you let other people tell you what to do all the time?”

I shrugged. “Did you ever want to kiss me?” Oh, Ronnie. Let’s just throw it all out there.

I bit my lip and his gaze held mine.

“What’s the best thing about being your own boss?” Okay, not an answer.

“Freedom.” I sighed. “That’s not true. Being my own boss means I don’t have to worry about puking or being too scared to talk. It’s my safe zone.”

I flinched under his gaze. “Why’s it failing then?”