Chapter 21 A Night Out
A NIGHT OUT
ASHLEY
The chef—well, technically the teppan master—bangs his spatulas together like drumsticks and belts out, “Happy happy, tasty tasty!”
The rest of the staff joins in, a chorus of laughter and rhythmic clanging filling the air. Flames leap from the grill in front of us, reflecting off the stainless hood and making everyone’s faces glow.
We’re seated shoulder to shoulder around the hibachi table—eight total.
Luna and Noah are at the far end, leaning into one another.
Next to them, Tay’s pretending to ignore Rocky, who’s been flirting and teasing her since he sat down, and Simon is chatting easily with Noah’s ex-wife—because apparently this cruise isn’t complicated enough already.
Beckett sits beside me, close enough that I can smell his stupidly irresistible cologne. The one I used to buy for him. The one I stopped buying… until he apparently started buying it for himself.
His arm brushes mine every time I reach for my drink, a virgin… something. Pineapple, I think. The “pregnancy pretense” drink. Fantastic.
But then, when no one is looking, Beckett casually swaps his drink with mine. Like it’s nothing. Like he hasn’t driven me absolutely insane for the last year.
I don’t react. Not outwardly.
The chef flips a boiled egg straight into his hat and the table erupts in applause. “For the bride and groom!” he announces, pointing at Luna and Noah. They beam.
Then his attention swings down the grill to us.
“Let me guess, a special anniversary?”
“Uh, just here for the wedding,” I say.
“Not a second honeymoon?” The chef scrapes his spatula on the grill and I feel Luna watching us.
“Maybe.” My cheeks burn.
I paste on a smile—small, controlled, hopefully convincing enough. Beckett plays along too… a little too well. His hand slides onto my thigh beneath the table.
My breath stutters.
I don’t pull away.
Instead—God help me—I shift just enough that our knees brush. Not intentionally. Not really.
The chef keeps up his chatter—jokes about love, loyalty, onions being aphrodisiacs. “You feed him, he stay loyal forever!” he says to me, plopping a bowl of rice in front of Beckett.
Everyone laughs. Even me.
Halfway through dinner, when the waiter brings out another round, Beckett swaps out our drinks again, smooth. Nobody notices.
He’s still paying for last night’s whiskey marathon, and he knows I could use something stronger than pineapple juice to survive this floating family circus.
It’s the kind of unspoken shorthand we used to have—eating from each other’s plates, reading each other’s moods, making decisions with just our eyes. For a moment, it feels like we’re still that couple.
So now he’s the one who’s been sipping juice, and I’m the one buzzing on rum and nostalgia.
Which might explain why I’m sitting so close to him. Why I’m starting to feel a little… floaty.
I take another sip, sending more happy bubbles flowing through me, and that last little bit of tension, of resistance, slowly drains away.
He’s the magnet, and I’m the paperclip.
He’s the earth, and I’m the moon that can’t stop spinning around him.
He’s tequila, and I’m the lime. He’s the rice and I’m the soy sauce.
Have I mentioned that Beckett has traded a few drinks with me?
“I’ve never seen anyone eat so much rice!” Courtney laughs up at Simon.
“I’m gonna need another nap. Third one today,” Simon groans, leaning back and rubbing a nonexistent belly. He did down two full bowls of fried rice, so he’s earned it.
“The night is young!” Luna pops up, tugging Noah to his feet. “On to karaoke!”
The chef’s spatulas clatter together in a final metallic flourish as everyone starts to rise, laughing and gathering phones, purses, and half-empty drinks.
Beckett’s hand hovers at my back, not quite guiding, but quietly following me as we join the throng of people funneling out the door.
By the time we've shuffled out of the restaurant behind Luna and Noah, that hand has slid around my waist.
And I… allow it.
In fact, I tuck my arm under his jacket and loop my fingers through his belt. Because tonight, apparently I’ve decided to go all in on the pretending.
It feels natural. Normal. Good.
Maybe sober me would have questioned whether it was necessary to be quite so convincing, but right now, I tell myself this is just part of the plan.
The karaoke bar is packed—half the wedding party is here, scattered in smaller clusters among the crowd of strangers.
Since there aren’t enough chairs for all of us, Luna props herself on Noah’s lap, and Beckett sits, patting his thigh for me.
“C’mon,” he murmurs.
“Wait!” Luna squeals from across the table. “What about your tattoo—”
Beckett shifts a little and grins, shaking his head. “It’s fine.”
Then he leans in, close enough that his breath brushes my ear.
“Just… be careful, okay?”
I turn toward him, the rest of the room falling away, and touch his cheek, the rough edge of stubble catching against my palm.
“I’ll be careful with you, baby,” I murmur, half teasing, half… not.
He smiles, small and a little wrecked, and for a second, I can’t breathe.
Songs drift by in flashes of laughter, with off-key duets, group singalongs, and even a few potential stars.
I forget, briefly, that Beckett and I aren’t really together.
I forget that his hand holding mine is for show.
Then someone takes the mic—a middle-aged guy in a Hawaiian shirt—and starts singing. His voice is surprisingly smooth, and the crowd falls quiet.
The first few chords are familiar… about remembering a dance.
Not this song.
I swallow hard.
I’m suddenly twenty-two again, barefoot at the end of our wedding night, my heels abandoned under the table while Beckett sways with me in the emptying hall—slow, unhurried, like he has nowhere else to be.
Then, other images flash through my mind. Our first apartment. The day I found out I was pregnant, and seven months later, Beckett holding one of my legs up, encouraging me. The tears in his eyes after.
Sharing the late-night feedings, painting their rooms together after we moved into our house… Us together. Eating. Laughing. Making love… All those moments I wouldn’t have had if we weren’t together…
But the singer goes on, about not knowing it would end. Not knowing he’d have to say goodbye.
I pull away, sliding off Beckett’s lap. “I’m gonna go check on the boys.” I practically trip over my feet to get out of there, not because of the alcohol, but because I forgot that I was angry…
Beckett moves to stand.
I lift a hand, stopping him. “No. I’m fine. I’ll… I’ll see you back in the room.”
The last thing I want is for him to follow me. I need air.
I need space.
Before I have to listen to another verse, the door closes behind me.
I let myself breathe.
This, tonight, it isn’t what separating from your husband is supposed to look like—what it’s supposed to feel like.
The alcohol is buzzing in my veins, my skin flushed and tingling. My back is cold where I had been leaning against him, too relaxed, too comfortable.
I was so busy worrying about fooling everyone else, I never stopped to think that I might fool myself too.