I reach for the gnocchi and pop one into my mouth, scrunching my nose when it fails to satisfy the craving I’ve had since my date with Cal.
My eyes skim over the restaurant, the bistro lights, potted plants, and vibrant atmosphere reminding me of the taco festival Cal and I went to. My hand plays with the slim stem of the philodendron that’s the centerpiece of my table. I recall Cal’s instructions for his plants and, without even thinking, I lean over to kiss the leaf. I’m chuckling at my silliness when I hear a voice that drains every bit of lightness from me.
“You’ve finally lost it, haven’t you?”
My gaze whips up, landing on the one man I hoped to avoid forever. In his blue polo, khaki pants, and dress shoes, Namik looks like he’s followed every recommendation Ralph Lauren has ever made for men’s fashion.
I know how hard he tries. Too hard. His polished exterior hides the defects I’ve seen up close.
“Were you sniffing the plant? Or licking it?”
“None of your business,” I reply stiffly.
His lips curve into a mocking smile as he tilts his head, letting his gaze roam my body like he still has every right. I fight the urge to grab my jacket to cover myself.
“Are you here alone?” he questions in a tone that makes it clear he believes I am.
“What are you doing here?” I ask instead, infusing ice into my voice. It’s not hard given I feel like I’m trapped in a casket, six feet underground.
“Meeting our friends for lunch. Oh,” he tsks, lower lip jutting in a poor imitation of remorse. “Myfriends.”
A scoff slips out of me, too loud to be missed. I knew he was spiteful, but this childish display of superiority further confirms why he and I could never work.
“You misunderstood my question,” I condescend, faking boredom despite my nerves scrambling from stress. “I’m asking why you are here, talking unnecessarily to me, when you should be withyourfriends?”
Placing both hands on the table, he leans in, towering over me in a pose meant to intimidate.
“I wanted to see what great achievements you’ve had since you were so hell bent on breaking up our marriage.”
“You broke our marriage whenyoucheated onme.“ I shoot him a death glare that should’ve singed the gel off his hair. “Why are you complaining? You never thought I was a good wife. You berated me constantly.”
“I was teaching you how to be better.”
My hand curls into a fist, nails digging into my palm. His patronizing response hits me like a thousand pieces of shrapnel chucked against unshielded skin. The rage I’d always subdued to keep the peace in our marriage ramps up. I mentally talk myself out of launching the uneaten gnocchi into his face and inhale deeply instead, letting the dramatic instinct to retaliate subside. Through clenched teeth, I reply, “Your method involved being emotionally abusive, something you clearly enjoyed.”
“If you only learned, I wouldn’t have needed to look elsewhere. My new girlfriend is an upgrade.”
New girlfriend?
“New girlfriend?”
I startle, because my inner voice sounds a lot like my cousin. I look behind Namik to see Irsia, her face etched with irritation. She comes to stand beside me, forcing him to back off. I rise from my seat as well, one hand automatically finding hers as we hold each other for strength.
“Did you get yourself a blow-up doll?” Irsia asks, fluttering her eyelashes innocently when my satanic ex glares at her. “Guess that’s the only kind of woman who can tolerate you.”
“Hey Irsia, tell me. Did your husband really die in an accident or did he deliberately step in front of the car because you’re a bitch?” he sneers.
Irsia’s hand grows cold, her shocked inhale audible only due to her proximity. Seeing his words hit their mark, Namik’s face twists into a satisfied expression as ugly as his comment.
“Have you lost all respect?” I scold, tugging Irsia back protectively.
“The two of you will live and die alone,” he says unapologetically, his declaration landing like a curse. His black eyes gleaming with malice as they dart between Irsia and me. “Who’ll ever want you now? One with a dead husband and you—” He points at me and scoffs. “A has-been cricketer and a worse wife. You didn’t deserve me.”
“Right, because giving me the STI you picked up with another woman was what I deserved?” I question loudly, uncaring whether the people at the table next to us hear it. I suspect they do because someone gasps, the hum of conversation around me dulling a bit.
Red coats Namik’s neck, embarrassment and anger emanating off him in cloying waves. I want to throw up everything I’ve consumed right there, probably on him.
“You were so cold in bed, a blow-up doll would’ve been better,” he spits. “I’m a man. I had needs and you weren’t woman enough to meet them.”