Denise rolled her eyes. “You’re not my boyfriend, Brandon. And you’re not my brother. I’m just living here because Kyle wants me to, so no. You don't get to tell me what to do.”
She grabbed her purse and strutted past him, the heels clicking loudly on the hardwood floor. The door slammed shut behind her.
Brandon stood there, his fists clenched at his sides, staring at the closed door as if he could burn a hole through it. He was seething.
I cleared my throat.
He jumped, turning to me. For a split second, the rage was still on his face before he smoothed it over with a strained smile.
“Ready, honey?” he asked, though his voice was tight.
The car ride was suffocating. Brandon gripped the steering wheel so hard his knuckles turned white. He kept checking his phone, glancing at the rearview mirror, his leg bouncing nervously.
“If you don’t want to go,” I said quietly, looking out the window, “we can just go back.”
He exhaled sharply. “Sorry. I’m just… I’m worried about Denise. If something happens to her, Kyle would kill me. I promised him I’d look out for her.”
“Is that the only reason?” I asked, turning to look at his profile.
He glanced at me, his eyes wide with feigned innocence. “Of course. What else would it be?”
I just smiled. A small, sad smile. “Okay.”
The restaurant was beautiful. Candlelight, soft violin music, the scent of expensive wine. It was the place where he had proposed to me. But Brandon wasn't there. His body was in the chair opposite me, but his mind was chasing a girl in a red dress.
He checked his phone every thirty seconds. He barely touched his appetizer. When I tried to talk about the weather, about a book I read, he gave one-word answers. “Mmhmm. Yeah. Nice.”
Suddenly, his phone buzzed. He snatched it off the table so fast he almost knocked over his water glass. He read the message, and the color drained from his face.
“I have to go,” he said, standing up abruptly.
“What?” I blinked, my fork hovering halfway to my mouth. “Brandon, we haven't even ordered the main course.”
“It’s an emergency,” he said, already putting on his coat. “Work. A server crashed. It’s a disaster. I have to go to the office right now.”
“On our anniversary?”
“I’m sorry, Maureen. I really am. I’ll make it up to you.” He dropped a stack of cash on the table, not even looking at me. “Take a taxi home. I love you.”
And then he was gone.