11. Isabelle #2
"Salt?" He held out the shaker before I'd even reached for it.
"Thank you."
"The fish is excellent here." His voice was low, meant only for me. "You should try it."
"I'm having the chicken."
"Trust me on this." He leaned closer, his breath warm against my ear. "The fish is better. They do this thing with lemon and capers that's rather brilliant."
I turned my head slightly. Our faces were inches apart, close enough to kiss. "I know what I want."
His eyes darkened, reading layers into my words. "Do you?"
I looked away. Picked up my wine glass and took a long sip.
Xavier saved me by launching into a story about a disastrous business trip to Tokyo. Something about a mistranslation and an accidentally insulting toast. Kim was shaking her head, adding corrections, insisting that wasn't how it happened at all.
But Femi wasn't distracted. His hand found my knee under the table—brief, questioning. I shifted away. He didn't pursue, but his smile told me he'd noticed.
The main course arrived. He served me vegetables without being asked. Refilled my water glass when it got low. Small gestures, relentless in their accumulation.
"You're tense." His murmur was barely audible under the table conversation.
"I'm fine."
"You're not eating properly."
"I'm not hungry."
"Issy." His hand covered mine on the table, gentle. "I'm sorry. For all of it. Can we please talk?"
I pulled my hand away. "Not here."
"Then where? When? I've been trying to reach you for a week."
"I know."
"Then let me fix this. Tell me what you need."
What did I need? I didn't know anymore. That was the problem.
My grandmother's voice cut through: "Isabelle, you've barely touched your plate. Are you feeling unwell?"
Every eye at the table turned to me. The weight of their attention was suffocating.
"I'm fine, Grandma." I smiled, picked up my fork, took a deliberate bite of chicken that tasted like cardboard. "Just pacing myself for dessert."
Femi's phone rang.
He glanced at the screen, frowned. "Excuse me. I have to take this."
He was up and out of the room before anyone could respond. I let out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding.
"You okay?" Xavier asked quietly.
"Fantastic."
"You look like you want to stab someone with your fork."
"Don't tempt me."
He laughed and bumped his shoulder against mine. "Hang in there. Dessert's almost here, and then you can escape."
Femi returned a few minutes later, pocketing his phone. He slid back into his seat, and immediately his attention returned to me. The hand on my knee. The wine glass refilled. The way he angled his body toward mine, creating an invisible wall between us and the rest of the table.
I wanted to scream.
Dessert came and went. Coffee was served. Slowly, the evening wound down. Sebastian called for the check. People began gathering their things.
I excused myself to the restroom, taking longer than necessary. When I returned, the table was nearly empty. My mother and grandmother had already left. Sebastian and Aria were saying goodbye to Kim and Xavier.
Femi was still there. Waiting.
I walked outside without acknowledging him. The night air was cool, a welcome relief after the stuffy warmth of the restaurant. I stood on the sidewalk, waiting for my car to arrive.
Was I proud of the way I’d handled dinner? Not particularly. I wished I’d been more mature about it. But it wasn’t the time to talk to him either. Everyone would have been terribly uncomfortable if Femi and I had brought our relationship troubles to the table.
Well, it was for the best. If he actually wanted to make things right, he should come to me.
Minutes passed, and I started stomping my foot impatiently. My car still hadn’t come. What in God’s name was taking so long?
Femi appeared beside me, casual, hands in his pockets. "Everything alright?"
I turned to face him. He was smiling… no, he was grinning. I knew that look. "What did you do?"
"What do you mean?"
"My car. It was supposed to be here. I know this is your doing."
He had the audacity to look innocent. "That's odd. Have you tried calling your driver?"
"Femi."
He shrugged. One shoulder. That infuriating half-shrug that said he knew exactly what he'd done and wasn't sorry about it.
"Let me give you a ride home. It's late. You shouldn't be waiting out here alone."
"I'll walk."
"In those heels?" His eyebrow arched. "That's eight blocks at least."
I turned and started walking, my heels clicking sharply on the pavement.
My shoes were not made for city sidewalks. Within half a block, I could feel the concrete through the thin soles, each step a small punishment for my stubbornness.
Femi fell into step beside me. Of course, he did.
"This is ridiculous," he said. "Let me drive you home."
"No."
"Isabelle—"
"Did you send my driver home?"
"I just redirected him. There’s a difference."
"Is there?"
We walked in silence for a moment. The city hummed around us—taxis, pedestrians, the distant wail of a siren, the particular rhythm of New York at night.
"I'm sorry," he said finally. "For all of it. The phone call. The silence afterward. Showing up in Milan like that was enough to fix everything."
I kept walking, not trusting myself to respond.
"I was busy with work. That's not an excuse, I know.
But the move to New York has been more complicated than I expected, and I got overwhelmed, and I handled it badly.
" He paused. "I knew how important the boutique was to you.
I thought... I thought giving you space to focus on it was the right thing. "
I stopped abruptly. Turned to face him on the sidewalk, forcing a couple to go around us.
"You thought disappearing for a week was giving me space?"
"I thought—"
"I needed you." The words came out harder than I intended, sharp enough to cut. "I called you in the middle of a crisis, exhausted and overwhelmed and barely holding it together, and you gave me a lecture. Then you vanished. No calls. No visits."
His jaw tightened. "I know. I got it wrong."
"You got it very wrong."
"I know." He stepped closer, closing the distance between us. "I'm sorry, Issy. Truly. I should have been there. I should have called. I should have shown up at your door instead of sending flowers."
"Yes. You should have."
"I'll do better." His hand came up, hovering near my face, not quite touching. "If you give me another chance, I'll do better. I swear it."
The streetlight caught his eyes, turned them warm and earnest. He looked sincere. He sounded sincere.
But sincerity wasn't enough. Not anymore.
"If we're going to make this work," I said slowly, "you need to be present. Not texts. Not gifts. Be present. When I need you, you show up. When something goes wrong, you answer your phone. When I call you in the middle of a crisis, you listen first and strategize later. Can you do that?"
"Yes. Absolutely."
"I mean it, Femi. Don't make promises you can't keep."
"I can keep this one." He reached out and took my hand. Squeezed once. "Let me prove it to you."
I looked at him for a long moment. At the face I'd loved at seventeen. At the man who'd broken my heart and came back asking for another chance.
My feet hurt. The night was getting colder. And I was too tired to keep fighting.
"Fine." I pulled my hand free. "Take me home."
His smile was triumphant, just for a moment, before he smoothed it into something softer.
"Thank you."
We walked back toward where his car was undoubtedly waiting. He offered his arm; I didn't take it. Kept my hands to myself, maintained the distance.
But I let him drive me home through the late-night streets.
It was a start. Whether it was the right start remained to be seen.