Twenty #2
I roll my eyes at my mother’s oldest sister. “Noted,” I say dryly, glancing at Mia, who’s trying—and failing—not to laugh.
“And another thing,” Gloria continues, her voice rising. “Did you invite that cousin of yours? The one who—what’s his name?—always brings that awful girlfriend who talks about horoscopes like they’re science?”
“Dylan,” I supply, biting back a groan.
“Yes, him. If they’re coming, I’m bringing my essential oils. That woman’s energy is toxic.”
“Gloria,” I interrupt, “why don’t you just text me your list of complaints? I’ll get right on it.”
There’s a beat of silence, and then she sniffs. “No need to be snippy. I’m just trying to ensure this engagement party doesn’t turn into another family disaster.”
“Appreciate the effort,” I say, my voice dripping with sarcasm.
She huffs. “Fine. I’ll see you tomorrow. And Austin? Don’t eat the shrimp.”
The line goes dead, and I set my phone down on the table with a sigh.
Mia’s shoulders are shaking with barely contained laughter. “She sounds . . . delightful.”
“You want her? I’ll gift-wrap her for you,” I deadpan.
“Oh, no, she’s all yours,” Mia says, grinning. “But I can’t wait to meet her. She sounds like the life of the party.”
“You won’t be saying that after five minutes of her ranting about how fluoride is a government mind-control tactic.”
Mia leans back in her chair, a mischievous twinkle in her eye. “This engagement party is sounding better and better by the minute.”
I groan as the waiter returns with our food.
For a while, everything feels normal. We eat, we talk, and Mia teases me mercilessly about my knife skills, claiming I cut my steak like a barbarian.
But then, as I’m finishing my drink, I notice a couple at a nearby table arguing. Not the subtle kind of arguing where you can pretend not to notice—no, this is the full-on, red-faced, hands-gesturing type, so much so, I think she is going to throw her wine at him.
Mia follows my gaze, her fork halfway to her mouth. “Yikes,” she murmurs.
The woman throws her napkin down and storms off, leaving the guy sitting there, looking like he’s just been hit by a truck.
“Awkward,” Mia says, raising her eyebrows.
“Think they’ll be at our party tomorrow?” I joke, but there’s something about the guy’s defeated expression that sticks with me.
“Hope not,” she says, finishing her risotto. “One drama queen per event is enough.”
“And who’s the drama queen in this scenario?” I ask, narrowing my eyes. “Gloria?”
She grins, leaning forward on her elbows. “I’ll let you figure that out.”
I hold the door open for Mia, and we step into the night. I can’t stop thinking about that guy at the table. Because as much as I want to believe we’ve got this whole thing under control, part of me knows it only takes one wrong move for everything to fall apart.
The cold night air hits us as we step onto the pavement, a sharp contrast to the warm, low-lit ambiance of the restaurant. Mia loops her arm through mine, her other hand clutching the little gold clutch she insisted she needed but hasn’t opened once.
“You’re quiet,” she says, glancing up at me. Her eyes are sharp, like she’s trying to read my mind.
“Just thinking,” I admit, steering her towards the car.
She hums, clearly skeptical. “About the guy at the restaurant? The one who just got dumped?”
I glance at her, impressed at her mind reading skills. “How’d you know?”
“I know you, better than you think, Conall. ” she says simply, as if that explains everything.
I unlock the car, holding the door open for her, and she slides in gracefully, her dress riding up just enough to make my blood pressure spike.
I shut the door a little harder than necessary, circling around to the driver’s side.
When I get in, she’s already twisted in her seat, her knees angled towards me. “So? What’s rattling around in that head of yours?”
I grip the steering wheel, debating whether to brush her off, but something about the way she’s looking at me—like she actually gives a damn—makes me cave.
“It just got me thinking,” I say as I pull into traffic. “About how fast things can go sideways. One minute you’re sharing a meal, and the next . . .” I gesture vaguely.
She laughs softly, shaking her head. “You’re comparing us to them? Austin, we’re not exactly a cautionary tale. We’re just . . . a little unconventional.”
“That’s one way to put it,” I mutter, earning myself a playful slap on the arm.
“We’re fine,” she insists, her voice light but firm. “Better than fine, actually. You don’t see me storming out of restaurants, do you?”
“No, but you’ve got a hell of a temper when you want to,” I tease, glancing at her out of the corner of my eye.
She scoffs, crossing her arms. “Says the guy who nearly bit my brother’s head off when he made a crack about your haircut.”
“Because he deserved it,” I argue. “And for the record, my haircut is immaculate.”
Mia rolls her eyes but doesn’t argue, which feels like a small victory.
We drive in comfortable silence for a while, the city lights blurring past us. I take the long way back to the flat, not ready for the night to end just yet.
“You know,” she says eventually, her tone quieter, “you don’t have to carry the weight of the world on your shoulders, Austin.”
I glance at her, startled by the sudden shift in her mood.
“I’m serious,” she continues, fiddling with the strap of her clutch. “You always look like you’re planning five moves ahead, like you’re waiting for the other shoe to drop. It’s exhausting just watching you sometimes.”
I grip the wheel tighter, her words hitting closer to home than I’d like to admit.
“I just don’t want to screw this up,” I say finally, my voice low.
“This?” she echoes, tilting her head.
“Us. You. Tomorrow. All of it.”
She stares at me for a moment, her expression softening. “Austin, you couldn’t screw this up even if you tried.”
I bark out an unconceived laugh. “You’re impossible,” I mutter, shaking my head.
“And you love it,” she fires back without missing a beat.
The thing is, she’s right. I do love it.
I love her.
God help me, I do.