Terms + Conditions (Strangers #3)

Chapter Twelve

CHAPTER TWELVE

NOW

I WADE THROUGH THE line of hungry patrons trying to get their name on the list to dine at Millers All Day, a favorite in downtown Charleston. Breaking through the line, I’m met with the gracious but tired smile of the young hostesses. The restaurant’s interior gives the vibes of a modern-retro diner with a coffee bar on the right, a bar along the back wall with an old-fashioned PRESCRIPTION sign above, large inviting booths along the far left wall, and—

Is that a living room area?

Servers move to and fro with haste that lacks the typical frantic look in the eyes of servers in a place as busy as this. They wear warm smiles and welcome their guests as though they’re family they haven’t seen in a while.

“How many?” One of the hostesses asks, and I give her the name before the other leads me further into the diner. Around the bend, there are even more tables, and in the far corner, I see her planted at a two-top. She sips on what looks like a mimosa that lacks the typical yellow color of orange juice. Instead, it’s a faded purple color—lavender, maybe? There are two plates on the table bearing a cinnamon roll as big as my head mounted with icing and a puff pastry that resembles a strawberry pop tart.

“Enjoy your meal,” the hostess says with a warm smile before two-stepping back to the front door.

“This place is hopping,” I say, sitting in the chair across from Elizabeth.

“There’s always a line, but it’s worth it.” She nods towards the plates between us. “Try the cinnamon roll; the cream cheese is to die for.”

I dig the fork into the crust, and when I take the first bite, I’m reminded almost of a cinnamon biscuit. The cream cheese icing melts across my tongue. It’s the perfect balance of sweet and savory.

The server appears with a steaming cup of coffee—black—with exactly two sugars. “Do you need a few more minutes on lunch?” she asks, looking between me and Elizabeth.

“Just a few. Thanks, Holly,” Elizabeth says, dismissing her with another sip of her mimosa. She nods toward the steaming mug between us. “I assumed you still drank your coffee the same.”

“You assumed correct,” I say, ripping open the sugar packets and letting the crystals dissolve in the warm liquid. Flipping over the menu, I have no idea what to choose. The hot honey chicken sounds kind of interesting, though. “What do you recommend for food?”

“You’d like the honey chicken donut sandwich. Unless they have the lobster roll. Then the lobster roll.” Her words make the corner of my mouth tick upward. She knew exactly what I would want, not to mention she ordered my coffee (exactly how I take it) so it would arrive when I did. Maybe we aren’t so hopeless after all.

Elizabeth rolls her eyes when she sees my smile. “What?”

“Oh, nothing,” I say, looking back down at the menu. The server returns a moment later, and I order the hot honey chicken without hesitation. Elizabeth orders the biscuits and gravy with a side of pimento cheese and a hot honey chicken breast of her own.

The silence between us is filled with the background noise of the restaurant. However, this silence isn’t as comfortable as it used to be. Silence wasn’t a problem for us. We were used to it, spending most of our time together in the quiet, but this…this is torturous. Elizabeth finishes the mimosa. Before she can place the glass on the table, another one appears.

“How is—”

“What are—”

We both stop, waiting for the other to continue, but neither of us does until she finally releases a deep sigh and says, “I’m invoking the Last Hoorah Clause .”

The sip of coffee gets stuck in my throat. I cough to clear my throat, and the liquid burns my chest the whole way down. “Excuse me?”

“The final term in our arrangement,” she says. “Line Ten of the—”

“I know what it is, Elizabeth.” Line Ten, Subsection B. I could never forget the ten lines that have outlined my life for the last ten years. “Why are you bringing it up?”

“Well, I was supposed to take Ryan with me, but...”

She scratches at something invisible on the table, avoiding eye contact. So, whatever this event is, it must be pretty damn important to invoke this clause. I thought the whole thing was stupid when I read it the first time ten years ago. In what world would one of us need to have a contractual agreement to force the other to join them at some event, regardless of our relationship status, up until we are divorced?

“…but we’re not exactly speaking right now.”

“Shocker,” I say over the rim of my coffee mug. Is it wrong that I feel a smidge of satisfaction hearing that they aren’t getting along? Though I have to admit, I’m not all that surprised. I mean, the guy doesn’t even know her favorite flower or respect the fact she doesn’t like to be called Lizzie. Or maybe he did those things because she didn’t correct him—and what does that say about their relationship?

Elizabeth shoots me a glare. “It’s the annual Palm Valley trip with the girls next weekend and—”

“If you were taking your new boyfriend, wouldn’t it be a little weird for me to show up?”

“They don’t know I was bringing him,” she says, her attention turning back to the invisible mark on the table. “They don’t know about the separation.”

I lower the mug to the table and scrub my hand down my face. What does she mean they don’t know about our separation? She tells those girls everything. We’ve been legally separated since May, almost…seven months at this point. Why wouldn’t she tell them?

My hand covers my mouth and I sigh. “Elizabeth—“

“I was going to tell them this weekend, I swear. Introduce them to Ryan and tell them about us getting a divorce, but it looks like that won’t be necessary.”

“You still can, without me.”

“Josh, I can’t show up alone.”

“Elizabeth.”

“Josh.” Her lips pull into a straight line. “You can’t say no.”

She says it so matter-of-factly. It’s like she knows she has me backed into a corner…because she does. She’s right; I can’t say no. It’s part of the contract. But I’m not sure I can handle spending another moment pretending to be the loving, doting husband when I know at the end of the weekend, I’ll be left alone…again.

“C’mon, it’ll be fun. One last hoorah before we sign the papers.”

I scrub a hand down my face. I’m going to regret this, I know it. “Fine. When do we leave?”