Tristan #2
The flow of our conversation is interrupted for a moment by our waiter’s arrival with appetizers.
He sets them down in front of us. The smell of the hors d’oeuvres makes my mouth water.
The earthy scent of the mushrooms, the freshly-baked baguette for the tapenade, the soft center of the bread slices still warm.
The waiter takes our orders. I opt for the seared duck breast and a side of truffle risotto, while Chloe chooses the herb-crusted lamb with roasted vegetables.
As he departs, the soft clink of silverware on porcelain fills the silence. I turn my attention back to Chloe, watching as she takes a bite of the tapenade on the baguette.
The simple pleasure of sharing this moment with her, the warmth of the room, the fine food. It’s all working in our favor. She’s relaxing a bit, her shoulders easing as she enjoys the meal.
I reach for my glass, taking a sip of the wine. The taste is as refined as the setting, and I hope it adds to the evening’s atmosphere.
“So, tell me. How have you been coping?”
Chloe’s eyebrows knit together. Confusion and worry start to cloud her gaze.
“With Ivy’s taste in movies,” I say quickly. Immediately, the fog lifts, and she smiles.
“I won’t lie. It’s been hard.” She sighs dramatically, spearing a stuffed mushroom with her fork.
“I’ve had to watch good movies in secret.
I have an underground resistance operation going.
A friend gave me access to the Oscars’ collection for this year, so I’ve been watching them while Ivy’s not around. ”
“You’ve never tried to make her watch them with you?”
“She hates movies that make her cry too much,” Chloe says, rolling her eyes. “Which is such a low bar. I mean, she cried at the end of Love, Actually. She wouldn’t last ten minutes into Moonlight.”
“What’s your favorite new film this year?”
Chloe’s face lights up, like always when she has the chance to talk about her greatest passion.
She tells me about a few different movies, a wartime period piece about a group of resistance fighters, an indie drama about a young artist trying to escape her past, and a tense biopic of a scandal-prone politician.
Her enthusiasm is infectious, and I find myself caught up in her descriptions. I’m about to ask for a play-by-play synopsis of each of the movies when the waiter returns, bringing our food.
For a few minutes, as we dig in, the conversation stalls. This time, though, the silence isn’t the cold gap it used to be. Instead, it’s a comfortable pause. We focus on our meal, taking in the rich flavors and enjoying the simple pleasure of each other’s company.
The Regency is one of the top-rated restaurants in LA for a reason. Our entrees have earned each one of those Michelin stars. My duck is perfectly cooked, the sauce rich and sweet, complementing the tender meat.
I glance over at Chloe, watching her as she takes a bite of the sautéed vegetables. Her eyes close in contentment as she tastes the dish, and it makes me smile.
As our meal continues, we go back to talking. “How have you been recovering?” I ask her.
She pauses eating, her expression hesitant for a moment, like she’s resisting the vulnerability that an answer would bring. Then, after a few seconds, she says, “It’s been a slow process, honestly.”
I nod, encouraging her to continue.
“I’ve never been injured like that before. I didn’t realize it would take so much time to feel… well, normal.”
“And do you feel normal now?”
“Almost,” she says. She rolls her shoulder back, her fingers pressing against her chest. “A little bit sore, but almost normal.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” I tell her, and I mean it. The relief in my voice is obvious. Watching her move with a bit more ease, seeing her start to relax, it feels like another step forward.
She smiles at me, and I’m rewarded with another flash of those dimples.
We finish our meal, and when the waiter comes to collect our plates, I order coffee for both of us. I start to ask for a dessert menu, but Chloe insists she can’t eat another bite. So coffee it is.
The truth is, I’m not ready for this date to be over. I want to linger in her presence forever. The coffee is a delay on the moment we have to go our separate ways.
Before the waiter returns with our espressos, I stand, buttoning the front of my suit. “Excuse me. I’ll be right back.”
I need a moment to collect my thoughts. The night has gone better than I dared to hope, but there’s still so much riding on this. I can’t afford to mess it up.
In the restroom, I stand in front of the mirror, adjusting my tie one last time, smoothing down the front of my suit.
I look good, sharp and composed, but there’s a nervous energy under the surface that I can’t quite shake.
My reflection stares back at me, a man determined to win back the woman he loves.
I take a deep breath, bracing myself for the rest of the evening.
As I leave the restroom and head down the hallway toward our table, I catch sight of someone familiar out of the corner of my eye. It’s Vincent, Chloe’s father. His face is twisted in fury as he storms toward me, his eyes blazing with barely contained rage.
“Mr. Dawson,” I manage to say, stopping in my tracks.
He doesn’t bother with pleasantries. “You had papers served to me this morning,” he hisses. “You and your brothers think you can take me to the cleaners?”
I can’t help but feel a surge of pride at his words. This lawsuit wasn’t just a business move. It was a statement, a declaration that we wouldn’t be pushed around. We put everything into it, and the stakes couldn’t be higher.