Chapter 20 #2
My stomach drops, a cold weight sinking through me as the restaurant's ambient noise fades to a dull hum.
I can feel the heat rising in my cheeks, a familiar flush that always betrays me when I'm cornered.
Without thinking, I quickly kick Vince under the table, my foot connecting with his shin harder than I intended.
Don't.
I don't have to say the word aloud. He hears it anyway, sees it in the panicked look I send him across the table.
His gaze meets mine for a split second, and in that brief connection, I see the battle warring within him—the instinct to defend me against Ted's casual cruelty warring with the knowledge that any reaction will only escalate the situation.
He gives an almost imperceptible nod, the tension in his shoulders relaxing just enough for me to breathe again.
"Oh, stop teasing, Ted," Sam interjects, laughing and holding her hand over her mouth as she chews. "You didn't miss much, Andy, it wasn't that funny. Vince calls them dad jokes. He hates them."
"What was the joke about?" I dare to ask, the words barely leaving my throat before I regret them.
My voice sounds strained, thin like paper stretched too tight.
I'm trying to defuse the tension, to smooth over the jagged edges Ted has just created, but I can feel the heat creeping up my neck, betraying my attempt at casualness.
The restaurant's ambient chatter suddenly feels too loud, too close, like the walls are closing in around our table.
Before Sam can repeat it, her lips parting slightly as she turns toward me, Ted cuts in, his voice slicing through the air with practiced cruelty.
"It's lost in the moment, Andrew. Maybe if you actually listened when people talked, you'd have heard it.
" He leans forward, his perfect teeth bared in something that's not quite a smile.
"It's rude not to listen when people are talking over dinner.
Are you just sitting here spacing out because of your Xanax—"
"Real estate agents should be better at reading the room, Ted," Vince says coolly, taking another bite of his food. "You're the only one at this table that's been rude. So shut the fuck up, so we can finish eating and get the hell out of here."
I freeze, horrified.
Vince's voice carries through the sudden silence, calm but weighted enough to stop conversation at our table. Sam's eyes widen, her fork frozen mid-air. Ted stares, momentarily speechless, his mouth open as if Vince just spoke a foreign language.
"You're being an asshole to Andy. It's making all of us uncomfortable," Vince continues, taking another bite of his food as if discussing the weather.
Ted's shock morphs into rage, his nostrils flaring, color flooding his face until he matches the restaurant's red carpet.
"You think I'm the problem at this table?" Ted snarls, leaning forward so far his chair creaks in protest.
"No, I know you're the problem at this table," Vince replies coolly, his focus still on his plate.
Ted throws his napkin down onto his plate with enough force to send silverware skittering. "I'm not the problem. You know who the problem is?"
Ted's voice rises, and I feel the weight of nearby diners' eyes turning toward our table.
The restaurant's elegant ambiance shatters like glass, the low murmur of conversations faltering as heads turn in our direction.
A fork clatters against porcelain at a nearby table, the sound unnaturally loud in the sudden hush that falls over our section.
I can feel the heat creeping up my neck.
Across the table, Vince remains infuriatingly calm, his jaw set in a way that suggests he's holding back.
Sam's hand has still frozen mid-air, her fork suspended over her plate as she looks between Ted and Vince with wide, uncertain eyes.
The candle between us flickers, casting elongated shadows that make Ted's enraged expression seem almost monstrous.
I want to slide under the table, to melt into the plush carpet and escape this nightmare, but I'm frozen, trapped between the two men like a deer caught in headlights, wondering how we ended up here, how a simple dinner to celebrate the end of a project devolved into this public humiliation.
The word "problem" hangs in the air like a toxic cloud. Ted's hand shoots out, index finger rigid as a dagger, pointing straight at Vince. The gesture is aggressive, childish, and utterly devoid of grace—a stark contrast to the high-end restaurant we're sitting in.
"The problem," Ted announces, his voice rising with each word, bouncing off the ornate ceiling and drawing more unwanted attention, "is you, Vince.
" His finger remains locked on Vince, a trembling arrow of accusation.
"My relationship was great before you showed up.
" He emphasizes the word as if trying to convince himself more than anyone else.
"Now Andrew's 'confused' or whatever the hell he calls it.
" Ted's voice drips with sarcasm, the quotation marks practically audible in his tone.
My stomach flips violently.
Ted swings his finger toward me, accusation dripping from every word. "He doesn't even know if he wants to be with me anymore, and it's because of you."
Vince finally sets his fork down, his ears flushing crimson. "I'm making Andy confused? What the hell are you talking about?" He turns to me, his expression a mixture of disbelief and something I can't quite read.
Heat fully floods my face, and I want to crawl under the table, to disappear through the floorboards. My mind races, desperate for a way to stop this train wreck, but the words won't come.
Ted isn't done. "You're constantly taking him places. Calling him every single damn day. Texting him nonstop. As if spending all day and night with him at work isn't enough, you need every single morning too?"
"Ted, stop," I mumble, the words barely audible. "Why are you doing this here?"
"Shut-up," Ted snaps.
A sharp, disbelieving laugh cuts through Vince's lips. "Kid, give me five seconds and I'll drag your sorry ass across this table by that ridiculous chain hanging from your neck."
"Andrew obviously tried to break up with me because he has a thing for you," Ted spits, the words leaving his mouth like venom, each syllable dripping with accusation.
He crosses his arms, the fabric of his designer shirt pulling taut across his chest as he settles in for a fight, his jaw clenched so tightly I can see the muscle jumping in his cheek.
"And it's not his fault. It's yours. You're hijacking my boyfriend on purpose, you dick. "
The final words land like punches.
I can feel Sam's eyes on me, her expression unreadable as she slowly lowers her fork to her plate, the delicate clink against porcelain unnaturally loud in the sudden hush that has fallen around our table.
Vince's knuckles turn white where he grips his fork, his knuckles stark against the dark wood of the table, his shoulders tensing.
My stomach drops. This is it.
My feelings for Vince are out in the open for everyone at the table to hear.
I bury my face in my hands, leaning my elbows on the table.
I can't look at Vince or anyone else. My face burns, my heart races, and I can already feel the flush creeping up my neck.
This is the most humiliating moment of my life.
Worse than throwing up in front of my sixth-grade class during my science presentation.
At least then I had the excuse of being sick.
Samantha breaks the suffocating silence.
"Well, I clearly need to be going," she announces, standing abruptly and grabbing her coat and purse.
Vince reaches for her hand as she puts her jacket on. "Sam, please don't leave. I'm sorry. At least let me give you a ride home."
"No, I'll grab another Uber," she says, pulling her hand away.
When I finally dare to lift my head, I see Vince's expression, remorse and panic etched across his face. Sam is keeping it together, but I can see she's upset. My heart sinks.
This isn't Vince's fault. It's mine.
Every ounce of this disaster rests on my shoulders. If I had the spine to properly sever ties with Ted, if I hadn't folded at the sight of his crocodile tears, we wouldn't be here. I let his tears pull me back, and now I've pulled us all under.
"Sam," I interject quietly, "honestly, you and Vince should stay and enjoy dinner. Ted and I will—"
"No," Sam interrupts, her voice firm. She raises a hand as if to physically block my suggestion. "No."
The table freezes, time suspended in the candlelit air.
Sam pauses, then turns back toward the table. Her fingers close around the wine glass, lifting it to her lips for one last, deliberate swallow before setting it down with a precision that speaks volumes. Her eyes lock onto mine, green and unflinching.
"I saw the look on his face," she says, her chin tilting toward Vince.
"What fucking look, Sam?" Vince snaps, the words sharp as glass, his frustration finally breaking through.
"Your look," she retorts, her glare searing into him. "The look of pure happiness when Ted said Andy had feelings for you."
Vince's expression empties, becomes a blank canvas wiped clean.
"Don't pull that shit with me, Vince!" Sam's voice cracks like thin ice under pressure. "I hate when you do this. God, I fucking hate it!"
She draws a breath, visibly composing herself, though her voice drops to a dangerous whisper when she continues. "This whole dinner was just an excuse for you to see Andy in his tight dress pants, wasn't it?"
Vince's mouth parts, then snaps shut. His eyes dart toward me, and I feel my heart pounding against my throat.
"Sam, you're being ridiculous," Vince says softly.
"Am I?" The sound she makes isn't genuine laughter.
"You know what? I'm done, Vince. I am so done with this.
With your Andy mornings, with your never-ending marriage drama, with your weekends that always belong to the girls, with you never being fully here when you're sitting right next to me.
I'm just... done." Her eyes land on me then, and it feels like being caught in headlights.
"And you, Andy. I'm done with you too—not because of anything you did tonight, but because tonight just made it all so clear why our relationship has been circling the drain lately. "
She turns her attention to Ted, her expression shifting from anger to something almost appreciative, like she's just been handed a gift she never knew she wanted.
"So thank you, Ted," she says, her voice laced with a bitter satisfaction that makes my stomach twist. "Thank you for helping me realize I'm not getting anything out of this anymore.
" She pauses, letting the words hang in the air, then adds, "I also think you should really find someone closer to your own age next time. How old are you?"
"Twenty-two," Ted mumbles, looking smaller than I've ever seen him, his earlier bravado completely deflated.
"Ah." The sound she makes is soft, almost pitying as she looks over at me.
I stare down at the table, unable to meet her gaze, the candlelight blurring into a golden smear on the polished wood.
"Goodbye," she finishes, the word final and sharp as she turns and walks away, the click of her heels echoing through the awkwardly silent restaurant hall.
Vince scrambles to follow, calling her name into the empty space she leaves behind.
And just like that, I am alone with Ted.
The awkward silence is deafening.
"Well, hey there, folks!" The waitress appears suddenly, her cheerful tone a jarring contrast to the tension at the table. "How's everything going? Can I get you anything else?"
I stare at my untouched plate. "Uh..."
"Can we get the check, please?" Ted interrupts curtly.
The waitress glances at the table, clearly picking up on the vibe. "Sure thing. Do you need boxes for your food or...?"
"We want the check," Ted repeats, not looking at her.
As she walks away, Ted turns to me, his tone biting. "I'm not paying for any of this, just so you know."
I clench my jaw. He stands, smoothing out his shirt. "I'll meet you back at your place."
"No, you won't," I say firmly, my voice surprisingly steady.
Ted freezes, looking at me like I've just slapped him. "What?"
"You're not meeting me at my place," I repeat. "Ted, this is over. I'm done. You've been cruel to me all night, and this whole scene was humiliating. I don't want to do this anymore."
Ted forces a laugh, his face darkening. "Are you serious? Just like that? You promised to give this a second shot. You promised to give it until Christmas."
"I did give it a second shot, we just didn't make it that far. We're not seeing each other again after tonight, Ted," I say simply, pulling out my wallet to pay the outrageous bill placed in front of me.
Ted stares at me for a moment, his face a storm of anger and disbelief, the carefully constructed mask of confidence he wears cracking.
His perfect features contort, the smooth brow furrowing into harsh lines, the jaw setting in a way that makes his teeth clench audibly.
I can almost hear the gears turning in his head, calculating, searching for some angle, some leverage to regain control, but finding none.
His eyes, usually so bright with practiced charm, now hold a raw, wounded animal quality, the pupils dilated in the dim restaurant lighting.
The color drains from his face. He opens his mouth as if to say something, to launch into another tirade or maybe to plead one last time, but the words die on his lips.
He looks around the restaurant, noticing for the first time the curious glances from nearby tables, the sympathetic looks from the waitstaff who have clearly witnessed our disaster unfold.
The humiliation of being publicly rejected, of having his tantrum exposed in this elegant setting, finally breaks through his anger, replaced by a deep, burning shame.
His hand, which had been resting on the back of his chair, clenches into a fist, the knuckles turning white, then slowly uncurls as if he's physically forcing himself to let go of his anger.
Then, without another word, he turns and walks out of the restaurant, his shoulders slumped in defeat, the expensive shirt suddenly looking too big on him as he disappears through the ornate doorway, leaving behind nothing but the echo of his expensive shoes clicking against the marble floor and the lingering scent of his cologne, a cloying reminder of what I've just escaped.