Page 56 of Unwrapped

“Then why is she coming over?”

“I made the arrangement before Christmas, and I felt I should honor it.” He glanced down at his coffee, turning the mug a little on the counter. “I’d like you to join us. I think you’ll like her.”

And now here I am, third-wheeling on Vince’s date the day after he told me it was over between us, eating salmon with Camille. Camille seems to think she’s having a lovely evening with a very promising man. Meanwhile, I keep catching Vince looking at me across the table, and then quickly looking away.

“So, Sophie,” Camille says, “Vince tells me you’re studying English?”

I resist the urge to ask why she cares. I’m already angry enough that Vince has put me in this situation, and now I’m expected to entertain his date, too. I glance at him across the table, but he’s concentrating very hard on cutting his salmon.

“Yep,” I say tersely. “English lit, mostly. Some creative writing.”

“How nice. I took a creative writing course in college. Such a lovely break from all the serious work.”

Oh, is that what creative writing is? A fun little break from doing something important? I glance at Vince. He’s heard it. I can tell by the way he looks up from his plate, then back at me. But apparently he’s going to leave this one to me.

“Yeah, well, it’s actually a lot of work,” I tell her.

“I’m sure it is, sweetheart.” Camille reaches for her wineglass, clearly considering the subject closed.

I take another bite of salmon before I say something that gets me kicked out of my own dining room.

“Sophie’s a very talented writer,” Vince says. “She won a competition last year.”

“Did she?” Camille looks at him with an indulgent smile. “You must be very proud.”

“I am.” He glances at me. “It was a big achievement.”

“Well, that’s wonderful.” Camille returns to her salmon, and the conversation moves on.

I take a sip of water, wishing I could excuse myself from the table. I don’t want to look at Camille, and I especially don’t want to look at Vince, so I find myself staring at the gingerbread mansion on the sideboard. We had so much fun putting that thing together, lopsided though it is.

When Camille arrived, she noticed it too. Oh, how adorable. Did you have little ones visiting for Christmas? When Vince told her we’d made it ourselves, she gave a strange little laugh, then frowned at the gingerbread house as though she couldn’t quite understand why we’d bothered.

I wish I could go back to that night. Before everything went wrong.

Camille is telling Vince about a difficult client. It seems she gave the man quite a talking-to, and she’s enjoying recounting it. “So I told him if he wanted someone to agree with everything he said, he was welcome to find another lawyer.”

“I imagine he got the message,” Vince says.

“Oh, he did.” She laughs and gives his arm a squeeze. “You know how some men are.”

Vince reaches for his water, and her hand slips away.

It’s hardly the first time she’s touched him tonight. Whenever she laughs, she finds some excuse to lean closer or put her hand on his arm. She’s also been directing most of the conversation toward him, which suits me fine. I have absolutely nothing I want to say to this woman.

Vince has become quieter as dinner’s gone on. He answers her questions and occasionally asks one of his own, but he’s stopped volunteering much. Camille doesn’t seem to notice. She’s telling him something about her law firm when I catch him looking at me again. He looks away, then asks Camille whether she’d like more water. She’s barely touched the glass she has.

“No, thank you.” She smiles at him. “You’re spoiling us tonight. I could get used to this.”

Vince gives a brief smile and reaches for the pitcher anyway, topping up his own glass. I look back at my plate. I don’t know what he expected when he invited her. He was so insistent this morning that they’re just friends, but Camille certainly seems to think otherwise.

And whether he’s enjoying himself or not, I’m still the one sitting here watching his date flirt with him.

Camille gets increasingly comfortable as dinner goes on. She’s turned her chair slightly toward Vince, and every time she laughs, her hand finds its way onto his arm. At first, it was the occasional touch. Now she’s leaving her hand there while she talks, giving his forearm little squeezes to emphasize something. Vince keeps finding reasons to move. He reaches for his water, adjusts his chair, offers to refill her glass. Each time, Camille eventually finds her way back to him. I’ve barely touched my salmon. I keep looking down at my plate, trying to concentrate on eating, but it’s impossible to ignore what’s happening across the table.

Camille is telling Vince about a charity gala she attended last month. She knows half the people on the organizing committee, she tells him, and has already decided he’d enjoy going with her next year.

“That’s a long way off,” Vince says.