“How optimistic of you.”
“For the record—and not that it matters—but you can ask me anything you want, and I’ll give you an honest answer,” she says. “I’m so over filtering everything to make other people happy. Seriously, ask me anything.”
“I’ll take your word for it.” The last thing I’m in the mood for is a volleyball game of personal questions.
“So your engagement—who ended it? You or her? You never answered.”
“It was mutual.”
She rolls her pretty blue eyes. “Well, that’s boring.”
“I’m sorry my personal life couldn’t be of more entertainment to you.” I take the last bite of my chicken and dab the corners of my mouth with my napkin before placing it over my plate.
“Were you in love?” she asks next.
“In love enough to propose, I guess.” I can’t believe I’m answering her questions; then again, it’s not like I’m giving her any real information. I’m careful to leave out the fact that her father hated me with the passion of a thousand Floridian suns and her mother once got drunk off too many vodka sodas and grabbed my package behind their pool house.
I’m also careful to bite my tongue about all my ex’s narcissistic tendencies and my moronic belief that our insane sex life and picture-perfect exterior would make up for the tumultuous roller coaster that was our relationship behind closed doors. When we weren’t fighting, we were fucking. And when she wasn’t getting my attention, she’d make damn sure to get someone else’s. She was creative like that. A total mind fuck. In the end, instead of sucking my cock every night, she was sucking my soul from my marrow.
I hated the man I was becoming.
And I’d become a passenger on my own ship—with her drama and nonsense behind the wheel. It was no way for a man to live. And given my ex’s batshit-crazy MO, I had to set the stage for a mutual breakup, or she’d have never let me go. It needed to feel like it was her idea and not just mine, or the woman would have dragged it out for an eternity before throwing lies in the air like confetti and writing a tell-all book when it was all over.
But none of those things are any of Elle’s business, nor am I in a mood for a jaunt down memory lane.
“What was her name?” she asks.
“Heather,” I say. It’s a common enough name that I’m comfortable sharing it.
“How long were you together?” she asks.
“Too long.” And that’s the God’s honest truth.
She clucks her tongue at my ambiguity. “What’d the ring look like?”
“I’m not sure what that has to do with anything . . .”
“Did you pick it out yourself, or did she tell you what she wanted?”
“Again, I’m not sure what that has to do with anything.”
She squirms in her seat, inching closer to me like an excited child who can no longer contain herself. “I’m just trying to get a visual here. I can’t picture you walking into a jeweler and choosing a ring. I feel like you probably had people who did that for you.”
“I chose it myself. Six carats because six was her favorite number. Flawless. Brilliant cut because I wanted to ensure the glimmering facets could be seen from the International Space Station.” Younger and insecure, I wanted the entire world to know she was taken the instant she walked into the room. It’s comedic in retrospect—how terrified I was to lose one of the worst things to ever happen to me.
Elle’s jaw falls, and she reminds me of that ridiculous GIF of Andy from Parks and Rec—the one Miranda sends me anytime she wants to rouse some semblance of a smile from me.
“This is big.” She slaps a hand on my polished dining table. “Like, that’s normal-people stuff. You picking an engagement ring.”
I can’t help but chuckle at her reaction, though I wipe the ridiculous amused expression from my face as soon as it appears. I’ve spent a lifetime building a fortress around myself—I won’t let some cute brunette tear it down with a playful line of questioning.
Flattening my mouth, I clear my throat and straighten my shoulders.
“I feel like I’m making you uncomfortable,” she says. “So I’m going to stop. But you should know I’m going to spend the rest of my night trying to picture what she looked like and what kind of fiancé you were, and by tomorrow I’m going to have this whole narrative in my head, and if it’s wrong, I’m going to be incredibly disappointed.”
“Or you could use that time to not think about me.”
Her eyes flash, and her cheeks turn a deeper shade of pink. “I’m sorry. I . . . I got carried away. I shouldn’t have asked all those questions.”
Folding her napkin, she lays it aside before pushing her chair out and rising to leave.