“Roman!” I call after him, but he’s already disappeared upstairs. I stand there, jacket clutched in my hands, fightingback the burning sensation behind my eyes. This can’t be happening again.
He returns minutes later, still wearing the suit pants and shirt but with his leather cut over it.
The Devil’s Rejects patch on his back seems to mock me as he grabs his keys from the hook by the door.
“Roman, please,” I try one more time, hating the pleading note in my voice. “You promised tonight would be mine.”
He crosses to me in three long strides, cupping my face in his hands. “I’ll meet you there. I promise. Order a bottle of wine, get some appetizers. I’ll be there before the main course.” He kisses me, quick but firm. “I’m sorry, sunshine. I need to handle this.”
Before I can respond, he’s gone, the front door closing firmly behind him. Moments later, I hear his bike roar to life in the driveway.
The room suddenly feels too quiet. I sink onto the couch, careful not to wrinkle my dress. Anger wells up inside me. Normal wives don’t have to cross their fingers and hope that their dates with their husbands actually happen. Normal wives don’t get stood up by the love of their life before they even make it to the restaurant.
But I’m not normal. I’m just another old lady, waiting for her man to remember she exists.
* * *
I check my phone again, one hour and seventeen minutes since I arrived at Sable and Silk. No calls, no texts.
The server has stopped asking if I’m ready to order dinner and is simply throwing pitying glances my way every time he walks by. I’ve nursed the same glass of Cabernet for the past forty minutes.
“Can I get you anything else, ma’am?” The server appears beside me; his voice is perfectly polite, yet there’s an undertone to it that says, ‘Are you going to order any more food?’ This is the fourth time he’s asked. I’ve gone from “waiting for my husband” to “I’m sure he’ll be here any minute” to “just a little longer, please.” The progression of my excuses matches the dimming of hope in my chest.
“No, thank you,” I murmur, unable to meet his eyes. “Actually, could I get the check for the wine and appetizer?”
“Of course.” He nods and disappears, probably relieved that the sad woman taking up one of his tables is finally giving up.
I glance around the elegant dining room, taking in the couples leaning toward each other, the groups of friends laughing over shared bottles of wine. Everyone else has someone who showed up.
My phone buzzes, and my heart leaps with pathetic eagerness, but it’s just my weather app sending an alert about temperatures dropping tonight. I toss the phone back into my purse, angry at myself for still hoping. Roman isn’t coming. He was never going to come. The evening was doomed the moment he realized the club needed him. And he couldn’t even be bothered to send a text that he wouldn’t be here.
The server brings the check, and I hand over my credit card without looking at the total. I don’t care what the wine and uneaten bruschetta cost. As I wait for him to return with my card, I notice a couple at a nearby table. The man reaches across to tuck a strand of hair behind the woman’s ear; a small gesture, but it makes my throat tighten. When was the last time Roman looked at me that way, with complete focus, like I was the only person in the room?
“Thank you for coming in tonight,” the server says as he returns my card. The formal pleasantry feels like a mockery.
I gather my purse and wrap, standing up and smoothing down the dress I’d chosen so carefully. As I make my way toward the exit, I feel eyes following me. The poor woman who got stood up.
Just as I push open the heavy wooden door to the restaurant, my phone rings. I fumble for it, nearly dropping it in my haste. Roman’s name flashes on the screen.
“Hello?” I answer, stepping into the chilly night air.
“Hey, Sunshine.” His voice is strained. “I’m sorry, but I’m not going to make it.”
“Yeah, I figured that out about forty-five minutes ago,” I say, the bitterness in my voice surprising even me. “What was it this time? What emergency was worth breaking your promise for?”
“Kayla, don’t start.” Roman sighs heavily into the phone. “I can’t get into it right now. I’ll make it up to you, I promise.”
“Make it up to me?” I repeat, my voice rising slightly. An older couple walking into the restaurant glance at me, and I turn away, walking toward my car. “How exactly do you plan to make up for the fact that I just spent over an hour sitting alone? That I had to keep making excuses to the server? That you once again proved that I am not your priority?” My voice catches on the last word.
“I know you’re upset—”
“Upset doesn’t begin to cover it, Roman.” I reach my car and fumble with my keys. “I’m tired of the club always coming first. I’m tired of being the one who gets pushed aside whenever someone texts you. I’m your wife, or does that just not matter to you anymore?”
“That’s not fair,” Roman says, his own anger flaring now. “You knew who I was when you married me. The club is family.”
“Oh, and I’m not? Is that what you’re saying?”
“Look, I’ve got to go. We’ll talk about this when I get home.”