Chapter 12 #2
He wasn’t wrong about the decor. The restaurant had red-checkered tablecloths that belonged in a cartoon, candles stuffed into Chianti bottles that had been dripping wax for what looked like decades, and plastic grapes hanging from fake vines on the ceiling.
It should have been tacky. Instead, it felt warm.
Lived-in. The kind of place where no one was trying to impress anyone.
We ordered wine and bread and the famous carbonara, and Ethan told me about growing up in Vermont with three older sisters who made it their life’s mission to torment him.
“They used to dress me up,” he said, tearing off a piece of bread. “Until I was like, eight. Full makeup, the works. There are photos somewhere that could end my career.”
“Blackmail material.”
“Serious blackmail material. Katie—that’s the oldest—she threatens to post them online whenever I forget her birthday.
” He grinned, and there was something infectious about it, something that made me want to smile back.
“Last Christmas my mom gave me an adult-sized onesie that said ‘World’s Okayest Uncle.’ She’s not subtle about wanting grandchildren. ”
“That’s aggressive.”
“That’s my mother. Zero chill. Absolutely none.” He shook his head, still smiling. “But she makes incredible pies. Like, three different kinds at Thanksgiving because she can’t pick a favorite. We had pie for breakfast for a week.”
I laughed, and it came out easier than I expected. He was good at this—filling silences, drawing people out, making them feel comfortable. The carbonara arrived—creamy, rich, the kind of food that made you want to close your eyes and savor every bite.
I should have been present. I should have been here, in this warm restaurant with this kind man who was telling me about his family and making me laugh and not checking his phone once.
Instead, part of me kept drifting somewhere else—to blue eyes, to a voice that cracked when it said my name.
“You okay?” Ethan’s voice pulled me back.
I blinked. “Sorry. Long week. What were you saying?”
“Just that my mom’s been trying to perfect her carbonara for years.” He tilted his head, studying me with more perception than I’d given him credit for. “Where’d you go just now?”
“Nowhere.” I forced a smile. “Tell me more about the carbonara rivalry.”
He let it go, but I could tell he’d noticed. Of course he’d noticed. He was a journalist too. We were trained to read people.
We finished dinner and declined dessert and split the check despite his protests. He walked us to the parking lot, the night air cool against my bare arms.
California evenings had a way of turning crisp once the sun went down, the warmth of the day giving way to something sharper.
“I had a really good time,” he said.
“Me too.” It wasn’t entirely a lie. The food had been wonderful. The company had been good. The problem was me—sitting through a perfectly nice dinner with a perfectly nice man while my stupid heart kept wandering somewhere it had no business going.
He leaned in and kissed my cheek. Gentle. Warm. It left no impression at all.
“Could we do this again sometime?”
I looked at him standing there in the parking lot lights, hands in his pockets, expression open and hopeful. Kind eyes. Honest face. Everything I should want.
“Ethan…” I took a breath. “I think we should stay friends.”
Something flickered across his face—disappointment—but he covered it quickly. He nodded once, slowly. “Sure. Yeah. Friends is good.”
“I’m sorry. You’re wonderful, really. This isn’t about—”
“Is it about Jack Specter?”
The question landed like a stone in still water. I stared at him.
“You haven’t been yourself since he stopped coming to the office,” Ethan said quietly.
There was no accusation in his voice, just observation. “I’ve noticed. The way you look at the elevator every time it opens. You’ve been somewhere else even when you’re sitting right in front of me.” He shrugged, a small sad movement. “I’m not blind, Pauline.”
I opened my mouth to deny it but nothing came out.
“I don’t know what’s going on between you two,” Ethan said. “And you don’t have to tell me. But whatever it is…” He smiled — genuine, if a little sad. “I hope you figure it out. I really do.”
“Ethan—”
“It’s okay.” He stepped back, giving me space. “I’d rather know now than keep wondering. And for what it’s worth? Whatever’s keeping you two apart—it seems like it matters. Maybe that’s worth fighting for.”
He drove me home and I let the cool air from the window wash over my face. I stood on my door and he waved me goodbye.
“Goodnight Pauline. See you at work?”
“Sure. Have a goodnight too.”
I called Claudette from my couch later that night. I was toying with my wine glass when she picked up.
“Claudie, I’m so confused.”
“What’s wrong? About what.” Worry seeped through her voice when through the phone.
I was confused about everything. My emotions have been on a whirlwind lately.
I didn’t know where to start. Didn’t know how to explain something I didn’t understand myself. So I started with what was simplest.
“I went on a date tonight. With a guy from work. Ethan.”
“Oh?” Her voice perked up. “Tell me everything. Is he nice? Does he treat you well?”
“He’s wonderful.” I twisted my grandmother’s necklace between my fingers. “Kind. Funny. He took me to this Italian place with the best carbonara I’ve ever had.”
“That sounds perfect.”
“It was wonderful.” I stared at the ceiling. “He’s exactly the kind of person I should want to be with.”
“But your heart doesn’t want him?” Her voice was soft with understanding.
She nailed it. I had spent an entire date thinking about her brother. I was a complete disaster of a human being who didn’t deserve nice Italian restaurants or kind men who remembered coffee orders.
“Pauline.” Claudette’s voice was gentle. “What’s going on?”
“I don’t know.” The words came out small. Lost. “I feel like I’m going crazy. Like everything I thought I knew is getting tangled up and I can’t find the ends anymore.”
She was quiet for a long moment. Too quiet, even for Claudette, who was usually a champion listener.
“Is everything okay?” I asked. “You sound strange.”
“I’m fine.” She said it too quickly. “Just tired. Michael’s been traveling for work and I’m not sleeping well without him.”
I wanted to push. Something in her voice was off, something that didn’t match the words she was saying. But I was too tangled in my own confusion to untangle anyone else’s.
“Don’t be so hard on yourself, Paulie. You’ll figure things out at your own pace.”
“I hope so,”
By the time we hung up, my wine had gone warm and my dress was wrinkled from sitting too long.
I changed into pajamas and washed my face and lay in bed staring at the ceiling. The problem was that I’d already figured out what I wanted—and it was exactly what I shouldn’t want.