Chapter 29 Abby #2
He clears his throat. “I’m sorry. That was out of line. Lila’s a great friend. I just…” He pauses, choosing his words. “I don’t want outside voices influencing your decision.”
“Outside voices?” I repeat.
“You know,” he says, glancing at me. “Lila. Or…” He trails off.
I stare at him, but he won’t finish the sentence. Instead, he pulls up to the valet outside the restaurant.
“Or Jonathan,” he finally says, just before stepping out and handing the valet a folded fifty-dollar bill.
A second valet opens my door. As I slide out, the weight of Marcus’s words press on my sternum and now I’m finding it difficult to take in a solid breath.
He straightens his blazer, his eyes scanning me. It’s a look I know too well, part admiration, part possession. He’s being sincere, sure, with a hidden edge. That confident, commanding energy that used to feel magnetic now just feels a little suffocating.
I forgot this side of Marcus. He’s equal parts charming and polished and cocky and controlling. A little too sure of himself.
I walk up beside him and he grabs my hand as we head into The Shell, a well-known hotspot for rich pasta, louder-than-necessary servers and violin-backed ambiance.
It’s the kind of place people pick for proposals or milestone anniversaries.
Definitely not “just catching up.” That uneasy feeling in my stomach returns like a rolling wave.
We’re seated right away and handed drink menus.
Marcus doesn’t even glance at his before ordering a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon, no doubt one with a price tag so high it could pay my rent for one month.
I glance around, letting the smells and sounds soak in.
The room is filled with well-dressed people bathed in the scent of garlic and roasted tomatoes, while Italian waiters bark toward the kitchen in dramatic flair.
A pianist plays something romantic in the background.
It’s all… too much. I shift in my seat and catch Marcus watching me, his half-smile tight. He can sense I’m off.
“You okay?” he asks.
I don’t answer right away. His earlier words are still bouncing around in my head: You have to do what’s best for you.
But if this is what’s best for me… why does it feel like I can’t breathe?
I reach for the gold heart necklace at my throat, spinning it between my fingers.
My grandmother gave it to me before she passed.
It’s the one thing that always centers me.
“You’re fidgeting,” Marcus notes.
I try to speak, but the words catch in my throat. When I finally get something out, it’s too jumbled to hear.
“What was that?” he asks, leaning in.
“It’s because I can’t do this, Marcus.” The words come out clearer than I expected.
The waiter, who’d just walked up to take our order, stops mid-step, eyes darting like he just stepped into a minefield.
“I’ll come back,” he quips, then disappears with the urgency of someone fleeing a kitchen fire.
Marcus lowers the menu and leans across the table, reaching for my hand.
“I said I was sorry for what I said,” he begins, his voice genuine. “And I meant it.”
I shake my head and pull my hand away. “I know. But this… doesn’t feel right.”
He sits back, his jaw stiffening just a fraction. “What’s the issue?” he asks. The words are calm, but they carry that familiar Marcus edge.
My pulse climbs. “The issue,” I say, heat rising in my chest, “is that you jilted me. You left me at the altar. You made me the jilted bride. Who the hell does that?”
I stand, hands thrown in the air, barely noticing the heads starting to turn around the restaurant.
“Abby, please sit down,” Marcus says quickly, trying to shush me like I’m a child mid-tantrum.
I laugh; a bitter, breathless kind of laugh. “No. You don’t get to ask me to lower my voice. You don’t get to sweep it under the rug like you forgot to RSVP to a dinner party.” I pause, breath catching. “Why did you leave me?”
He stands, reaching for my arm, but I jerk it away.
“I don’t know!” he says, his tone cracking. “I wasn’t sure. But I’m sure now. Abby, please,” he demands again, more desperate now.
“You know now? After you humiliated me, vanished for years and only showed interest because you thought I was with Jonathan?” I throw at him.
Marcus runs a hand through his hair and glances around the restaurant, clearly mortified. He lets out a short, incredulous laugh.
“So what, now I’m the villain and Jonathan’s the hero? Abby, you can’t seriously believe he’s better than me. Look what he did to you.” He gestures toward me with a self-righteous toss of his hand. “Now sit down.” He drops into his seat like he expects obedience.
I lean forward, meeting his eyes without flinching. “Jonathan may not be perfect,” I say, “but at least he had the balls to end things to my face,” I yell. Then I straighten, grab my purse and turn on my heel. “Goodbye, Marcus.”
I don’t look back, but I hear him huff; still parked in his seat, still stuck in his own ego.
What I do hear is a faintly, scattered applause rising behind me.
A grin spreads across my face, not because of the clapping, but because I feel it.
I feel the weight I’ve been carrying for years shedding away.
I finally said everything I needed to say. I finally got my closure.
Now… there’s someone else I need closure from.