Chapter Ten #2
Grant’s fingers tapped a silent rhythm on the linen tablecloth, betraying the calm facade he strived to maintain. The soft clink of wineglasses in the background did little to lift the subdued atmosphere that had settled over them like a fine mist.
“Have you decided?” the waiter’s voice sliced through their quiet, prompting an almost imperceptible nod from Grant.
“The carbonara,” he said with a conviction that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “It’s the best in the city.” He handed the menu back with finality, as if sealing his fate along with his meal choice.
Charlotte observed him, her menu lying forgotten beside her plate.
She mirrored his order, the words coming out mechanically: “I’ll have the same, thank you.
” It was not just the dish she was agreeing to but also this unspoken dance they were engaged in—carefully choreographed steps around whatever it was that he wanted to tell her.
As the waiter disappeared with their menus, the reality of their situation seemed to echo off the empty plates before them.
Charlotte’s mind, usually so filled with the vivid colors and textures of the natural world she captured through her lens, now found itself navigating the gray area that had spread between her and Grant.
She reached for her wine, the ruby liquid swirling in the glass—a silent toast to the courage she hoped would come when the time was right to speak the questions that lay heavy on her tongue.
The scent of garlic and warm dough preceded the waiter as he approached their table, a linen-draped arm cradling a woven basket. Steam curled up from within, carrying with it an aroma that beckoned to forgotten appetites. He set the basket down gently between Grant and Charlotte.
“Fresh out of the oven, compliments of the chef,” the waiter said with a practiced smile, his eyes flicking between them before he retreated into the background hum of the restaurant.
Charlotte reached out, her fingers brushing against a roll.
She hesitated, then plucked it from the basket, the warmth seeping into her skin, grounding her in the moment.
The crust gave way beneath her gentle pressure, releasing a puff of steam that fogged her vision momentarily—a fleeting veil over the reality of their strained silence.
She tore off a piece, watching as Grant did the same, their movements synchronized yet isolated.
The bread was soft, its interior pillowy and comforting against the roof of her mouth.
For a second, she allowed herself to savor the simplicity of the flavor, to get lost in the sensory details she so often sought out behind the lens of her camera—the play of textures, the interplay of light and shadow.
But then, she glanced at Grant, his jaw working silently as he chewed, his eyes fixed on some invisible point beyond her.
The complexity of his expression was a stark contrast to the simplicity of the meal before them, hinting at layers and nuances she could not capture.
It was a scene she yearned to dissect, to understand through her artistic eye, but even her skills felt inadequate against the opaque curtain of his reserve.
Charlotte swallowed the bread, the garlic lingering on her tongue as a tangible reminder of the conversation yet to be had.
She reached for another roll, using the action as a stalling tactic, buying time as she mustered the resolve to delve into the uncertainty that hung palpably in the air between them.
Grant cleared his throat for the second time. “I’m not sure how to tell you this, and I should’ve told you when we were in Vegas, but the timing didn’t seem right, as we’d only just met.”
Charlotte had enough of his beating around the bush. “Just say it, Grant. Whatever it is, I can take it. I’m a big girl.” Her words were harsh, showing just how impatient she’d become.
He nodded. “I’m sorry. Listen, I was married once.” He paused, looking at her across the table, gauging her reaction.
It took her a few seconds to absorb what he said. “Once. So, you’re divorced now?” At least he wasn’t still married. But still … just her luck. She finally has a date with a man she could get involved with, and there’s an ex-wife hanging around in the background.
She and Rhonda used to discuss who they wanted to marry and why.
The number one requirement that both had agreed on was they wouldn’t marry any guy who’d been married before.
As kids, they made up all kinds of crazy ex-wife scenarios: a jealous scorned woman trying to kill them; a vindictive ex determined to destroy their lives and steal all the glitzy jewelry they were sure to have.
Charlotte knew these were far-fetched childhood fabrications, but there was no denying that a relationship with someone divorced made things more complicated.
The silence continued to stretch between them like a taut string, quivering with the weight of unspoken words.
Grant’s hand was a rough-hewn sculpture against the white linen tablecloth as he tore at the bread again.
He chewed methodically, his jaw working in silence.
Grant’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed, and he reached for his water glass, the ice clinking like distant chimes.
His gaze, which had been lingering on the flicker of the candlelight reflecting off his cutlery, rose to meet hers.
It was a look tinged with a certain gravitas, an acknowledgment of the elephant in the room.
He cleared his throat, a deep, resonant sound that seemed to echo off their secluded corner booth.
“I know you feel uncomfortable right now,” Grant said, his tone earnest, laced with a vulnerability.
Charlotte noted the slight tremor in his voice—the only betrayal of his composed exterior.
His gaze held Charlotte’s, seeking something akin to understanding or perhaps absolution. “I didn’t bring you here for that.”
His words hung in the air, laden with implications and possibilities.
Charlotte’s heart thrummed against her ribcage, and her fingers tightened around the stem of her wineglass.
The muted hum of conversation and silverware clinking against china from the other diners faded into the background.
Her gaze, sharp and searching, fixed upon Grant as if trying to peel back the layers of his carefully constructed facade.
A waiter glided by, refilling their water glasses with a precision that spoke of years in service—but Charlotte barely noticed the interruption. The expectant silence between them had stretched into an entity of its own, filling the space with tension so tangible she could almost grasp it.
Grant’s eyes, once confident and sure, now wavered under her scrutiny. She sensed the struggle within him, the internal battle to articulate thoughts that might have seemed clearer before the weight of her anticipation bore down on them both.
The silence continued, pressing against her temples like the onset of a headache.
Charlotte had never been one to lead conversations down their most treacherous paths, preferring instead to let others set the pace.
But tonight, the quiet grated at her resolve, the unknowns multiplying like shadows at dusk.
“Grant,” she prompted, her voice a soft nudge, yet her tone carried an edge—a signal of her fraying composure.
She leaned back, crossing one leg over the other beneath the table, her posture a mirror of the poise she fought to maintain.
With a calm she did not feel, she waited, granting him the stage but not the indulgence of endless time.
“You are divorced, right? If not, just tell me, and I’ll get a taxi.
I’m not the kind to play games.” They’d spent thirty minutes saying nothing. Maybe Grant was a coward.
Grant’s fingers curled around the stem of his wineglass and he drew in a deep breath, his eyes locked onto the dark liquid as if it held the script for the words he couldn’t find.
Charlotte watched him, her hand stilling on the white linen tablecloth, sensing the shift in the air, an almost palpable prelude to revelation.
“No, I’m not divorced. My wife died. Four years ago.
Not something I like to talk about, and if I didn’t feel something for you, I wouldn’t have told you.
I want us to share everything, the good, the bad, and the ugly.
” He smiled then, and Charlotte felt relief wash over her like a wave in the ocean.
“I’m so sorry, I thought … well, never mind what I thought. Would it be too intrusive if I asked how she died?” The words slipped out more pointed than she intended, cutting through the quiet.
Grant looked up, finally meeting her gaze, and the intensity she found in his eyes startled her.
He shook his head. “Cancer,” he said quickly.
“Her doctor discovered a lump during a routine mammogram. Thought they’d removed all the cancer, but sadly, Angelina’s cancer was very aggressive, triple-negative breast cancer.
She went through chemo and immunotherapy.
Once it spread to her bones, then her lungs, we knew there wasn’t much hope. ”
Charlotte felt her breath catch, the revelation striking her with the force of a slap.
Widower. The word echoed in her skull. Her mind raced, casting back over their half-day acquaintance, searching for signs she had missed, clues she had ignored in her enjoyment of his company.
She was pretty sure he was telling her the truth now.
She leaned back in her chair, her gaze never leaving his face—a face that now seemed like a map of regret and earnest apology.
She felt an inexplicable urge to understand why he hadn’t told her when they’d first met.
“Charlotte, please, I know this isn’t what you want to hear, but I wanted to be completely honest with you.”