Chapter 20
The Truth in the Candlelight
Andrew
The sound of Ted's voice cuts through the restaurant's murmur like shattered glass. I yank my hand away as though it has been burned, the sudden loss of Vince's warmth leaving my fingers tingling. My heart plummets, the brief moment of connection with Vince evaporating.
"Am I interrupting something?"
Ted stands there, his perfect smile fixed in place, but his eyes tell a different story.
They're cold, calculating, taking in every detail of the scene—Vince's hand still hovering where mine had been, the intimate lean of our bodies across the table, the candlelight casting us in its private glow.
The fury simmering beneath his polished exterior is unmistakable, a predator barely restrained.
"I'm Ted." Ted's voice is all false cheer as he extends a hand toward Vince, as if he hasn't just witnessed something that would make any reasonable man's blood boil.
I watch, my stomach churning, as Vince rises smoothly from his chair, his face a mask of polite neutrality.
"Vince."
The handshake happens in slow motion, Ted's fingers wrapping around Vince's in that familiar, disappointing grip.
It's limp, clammy, utterly devoid of confidence.
I've always wondered how a man whose livelihood depends on making people trust him could possess such a terrible handshake.
It belongs in a museum of social failures.
Vince's expression remains unreadable, but I can see his reaction—the slight tightening of his jaw, the almost imperceptible withdrawal of energy that always accompanies contact with Ted's damp palm.
How does he sell million-dollar homes with that handshake? The question has haunted me since our first date, but now it feels like a metaphor for everything wrong between us.
"I can't believe I finally get to meet you," Ted says, his voice overly enthusiastic as his hand finds its way to my back.
His gaze never leaves Vince. "Andrew's best friend gets to see him more than I do, but I never catch him around.
Weird, right? I didn't expect you to be so old, if I'm being honest, you sounded a lot younger on the phone—"
"I was hoping to meet you at the campout," Vince says smoothly, his tone even.
"I don't do camping, man," Ted replies with a dismissive wave of his hand.
"Right," Vince says with a slight smile. "So I heard."
I grab Ted's arm, squeezing as hard as I can.
"Quit it," I hiss under my breath.
Vince doesn't seem fazed by Ted's childish behavior. His attention shifts to the tall woman who has just joined us at the table, and the entire atmosphere of the restaurant seems to change around her.
"This is Sam," Vince says, gesturing toward her.
And I'm breathless. I knew she'd be beautiful, but Samantha is something else entirely.
She moves with a dancer's grace, each step deliberate and fluid, as if the restaurant floor is her stage.
Her sun-kissed light brown hair falls in soft waves past her shoulders, catching the candlelight and turning it to liquid gold.
But it's her eyes that captivate. They're a striking green, with flecks of amber that seem to glow.
They're intelligent eyes, observant and warm, and when they meet mine across the table, I feel like she's seeing right through me, yet without judgment.
She wears a fitted red dress under a cream-colored trench coat that drapes elegantly over her frame, the color of the dress illuminating her skin. Red heels click softly against the floor as she approaches, the sound barely audible yet somehow commanding attention.
Vince and Sam don't just look like they've walked out of a high-end fashion campaign—they look like they've invented it.
They are that couple, gorgeous and perfectly matched, their chemistry so palpable it practically hums in the air between them.
When Vince's hand finds the small of her back, guiding her to her chair, it's with a familiarity that speaks of months spent together, of inside jokes and shared histories that I can only imagine.
Sam notices me watching, and instead of looking away, she offers a small, genuine smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes.
There's something there. It's a flicker of uncertainty, or maybe she's just sizing me up, the man who spends so much time with her boyfriend. In that moment, I can't even be mad. All I feel is an overwhelming sense of inadequacy, of being on the outside looking in at something perfect.
When it's my turn to introduce myself, I try not to sound too awkward.
"I'm Andrew. It's so great to finally meet you, Sam. I've heard wonderful things about you. I've actually watched several of the shows you've worked on, and you're...wow, you're stunning."
Vince's hand lands on my arm, giving it a gentle squeeze. "Alright, Andy, dial it back a bit. You're overwhelming her."
"No I'm not," I mutter, giving him a sideways glance as I slide into my seat.
Sam laughs softly, unfolding her napkin with graceful fingers. "Well, Andy, I think you're beautiful too," she says, her green eyes sparkling with genuine amusement.
I feel my face flush, and for once, I don't deflect. "Thank you."
Ted laughs loudly, cutting into the moment as he unrolls his napkin with unnecessary aggression. "Sam, come on... He's not in your league. Don't inflate his ego. You should take the compliment, you're drop-dead gorgeous. Do you model?"
His utensils clatter noisily as he fumbles for his napkin like a child, nearly knocking his knife off the table.
I sigh, glaring at Ted but choosing not to engage. Ted's lack of table manners is no secret, but tonight, in this fancy restaurant, it feels particularly grating.
Sam shares about modeling to get her through college, her fingers tracing the rim of her wine glass as she speaks, the red polish on her nails catching the candlelight.
Her voice is smooth as she describes the grueling hours and constant scrutiny that came with the profession.
"It paid the bills," she says with a dismissive wave of her hand, "but I always knew I wanted more. "
She talks about how she ended up with a writing career in Los Angeles, her eyes lighting up when she mentions her first script sale, the way it felt to see her words come to life on screen. I find myself leaning in, captivated by her story, by the way she speaks with such passion and purpose.
Vince, on the other hand, is quietly studying the menu with that neutral, blank expression he always wears when he doesn't want to be part of something.
His fingers are curled around the leather-bound menu, his thumb stroking the embossed logo in a slow, repetitive motion.
The candlelight catches the silver threads in his hair, and I can't help but notice the tension in his jaw, the way his shoulders are slightly hunched as if bracing for impact.
I follow his lead, trying to stay silent and let the night run its course, my own menu propped up like a shield between me and the awkwardness of the situation.
The restaurant buzzes around us, the clinking of silverware and murmur of conversations creating a backdrop to our tense little bubble, and I wonder how much longer I can pretend that everything is fine.
"Why is it taking so long to get serviced?" Ted complains, his gaze darting around the restaurant in search of a waiter.
"Ted, we just sat down. Relax," I say, squeezing his arm again in warning.
Ted retaliates by squeezing my knee under the table.
The pressure sends a jolt of pain through me, a stark contrast to the playful touch Vince once gave me on set that had made me laugh. I rub my knee absently, the ache lingering as Ted finally releases his grip.
"I've already heard plenty about Vince," Ted says, a smirk playing on his lips. "Since, you know, Andrew spends all his time with him instead of his boyfriend."
Vince doesn't even flinch, his eyes still glued to the menu.
Sam glances at him briefly before redirecting her attention to Ted, while I tilt my head back, staring at the ceiling to avoid engaging.
The ornate plasterwork above us does little to distract from the tension at the table, but it's better than facing Ted's tantrum.
"But Sam," Ted continues, "I can't say I know much about you. Tell me more. Are you from around here?"
"I'm originally from Wisconsin," Sam replies, taking a sip of her water. "But I've lived in LA for almost twenty years now."
Appetizers arrive shortly after. The conversation flows between Samantha and Ted, which is fine by me. I sip my tea while the others enjoy their wine, the clinking of their glasses a distant sound.
Sam seems genuinely kind.
Her intelligence shines through her humor and conversation as she talks about her work in writing and producing.
She's clearly passionate about her craft, and I understand why Vince is so taken with her.
She's everything he could want. She's everything anyone would want.
Even in this awkward setting, she somehow manages to draw someone like Ted into a decent conversation.
I'm the only one at the table who hasn't touched my food. Instead, I spend most of the time staring at it, sipping my tea, and praying for the night to end. Ted's laughter pulls me from my thoughts.
"You're funny," Ted remarks to Sam before turning to me. "Did you not get the joke, Andrew?"
"No, sorry. I didn't hear it."
Ted turns back to Sam. "Andrew's pretty and all, but he's got the attention span of a goldfish."
Vince's eyebrows shoot up so fast I think they might hit the ceiling.
The muscles in his jaw tighten almost imperceptibly, a flicker of something dark passing through his eyes before he smooths his expression back into careful neutrality.
Sam pauses with her fork halfway to her mouth, her green eyes shifting between Ted and me with an unnerving sharpness that makes me feel like I'm under a microscope.