He takes a sip, his eyes never leaving mine. “What wedding?”
There’s my answer.
I chuff, reaching for my drink. “Mine.”
His gaze travels to my left ring finger, and his brows lift. That seems to be the most common reaction when people see the ostentatious show piece on my finger. Seven carats because seven is Dorian’s favorite number. Or so he said. It was the first I’d heard of him even having a favorite number, and we’d been together two years at that point.
Maybe that should’ve been my first red flag, though looking back, it seemed so inconsequential at the time.
I slide my left hand under my left thigh.
When the fanfare is over, I’m going to talk Dorian into getting me a simple gold band for everyday wear. For now, he loves the attention he gets from “showing me off” (his words), and he never fails to point out the sparkler on my finger.
Sometimes I think this whole thing is more about him than it is about us.
“When is it?” the stranger asks. “Your wedding.”
I shrug. “Tomorrow.”
He pulls at his cuff, checking the chrome watch that decorates his left hand.
“I know, I know,” I say. “It’s late and tomorrow’s a big day and I should be in bed.”
The man’s gaze lands on my knee, which I realize is bouncing.
I must look like a nervous wreck.
Or a hot mess.
Probably both.
“You ever been married?” I ask him, after spotting a naked ring finger.
He takes a sip, longer this time. “Once.”
“Did you have cold feet the night before?”
He takes another sip. “Nope.”
“Are you still—”
“—nope,” he cuts me off.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
He chuffs, shaking his head. “Trust me, it’s a good thing.”
“I’m Olivia, by the way,” I say.
“Gabriel.”
“Can I ask you something, Gabriel? Something personal?”
“Shoot.”
A single bar stool lingers between us, empty.
“Do you mind?” I ask, pointing.
“All yours.”
I settle in closer to him and draw my half-finished drink nearer. “If you could do it all over again, would you still marry her?”
The corner of his mouth snarls for the tiniest second and then he clears his throat. “No.”
“What ended your marriage?”
“You said something. Singular.”
I shrug. “I meant something in the generic sense. Like I’m going to ask you a question and then it’s going to expand into a discussion. A personal discussion.”
“Afraid I didn’t agree to those terms.” He takes a sip. “Communication is key. In marriage and in life.”
“Thank you for sharing your profound wisdom with me, but you still haven’t answered my question.”
“And I don’t plan to.” He exhales before his gaze travels to the back of the bar. The mahogany and glass shelves upon shelves featuring the finest of spirits.
He appears lost in thought, and I’m almost hesitant to interrupt his moment because he’s clearly having one, but I’m deathly curious. And my inhibitions are low.
“Can I tell you something?” I ask. “Something deeply personal?”
He peers down his nose. “As long as you won’t regret it later.”
I roll my eyes. “You’re a complete stranger. There’s nothing you could possibly do with what I’m about to tell you.”
He pivots in his seat, aligning himself with me and gifting me his full attention.
“All right,” he says, eyes half-squinting.
I draw in a long, cool breath before letting it go.
“When I think of my future … for the craziest reason … I can never picture my fiancé in it,” I say. “I try and I try. And I try some more. But it’s like my mind refuses.”
“Do you love him?”
“Of course I do,” I answer without hesitation.
“Do you want to spend the rest of your life with him?” he asks.
I hesitate this time, though I don’t mean to and I don’t know why. “Of course.”
“If that’s not the weakest ‘of course’ I’ve ever heard…”
My response comes in the form of thoughts next. All the things I’m afraid to say because saying them out loud makes them real.
“Sometimes I feel like we’re two completely different species,” I say. “I grew up in a working class family outside Pittsburgh and he grew up with a household staff of twenty and summered on the family island. The first time I had dinner with his parents, I didn’t know which bread plate was mine and I used the wrong fork, and then I spilled my red wine on the antique linen tablecloth, which his mother was quick to inform me was a family heirloom.”
“His mom sounds like a piece of work,” he says, sniffing. “But I’m sure he found all of that endearing.”
I realize I’m tearing a poor drink napkin to shreds and I stop. “Actually, no. When we left that night, he offered to buy me etiquette classes.”
“That’s … a jerk move.” His dark brows lift and he shakes his head. “Sorry.”
“I think he meant well.”
“You think he meant well?”
I cup my hands around my tumbler and stare ahead, thinking of all the other times Dorian “meant well.”