and art run in similar circles around here,” he explains, nodding. “I’ve heard he’s a good guy. His art is stunning.”
Pride swells, warm in my chest. “He is. It is, yeah.” And another truth rolls out of me before I can catch it: “And he’s the first guy I’ve been with who . . .”
Shit.
I try to think of a better way to end this sentence than the bald truth, but my mind is completely blank but for Elliot’s earnest expression and the gentle way his hands are cupping his water glass. He unravels me.
He waits, and finally asks, “Who what, Mace?”
Goddammit. “Who didn’t feel like some sort of betrayal to . . .”
Elliot picks up my unfinished sentence with a gentle “Oh. Yeah.”
I meet his eyes.
“I’ve never had one of those,” he adds quietly.
Actually, this is a minefield. Blinking down to the table, with my heart in my windpipe, I barrel on: “So that’s why I said yes when he proposed, impulsively. I’d always told myself the first man I was with and didn’t feel wrong about, I would marry.”
“That seems like . . . some sturdy criteria.”
“It felt right.”
“But really,” Elliot says, drawing a finger through a drop of water that’s made its way to the tabletop, “according to that criteria, technically wouldn’t that person be me?”
The waiter is my new favorite human because he approaches, intent on taking our order just after Elliot says this, preventing me from the awkward dance of a non-answer.
Glancing at the menu, I say, “I’ll have tacos dorados and the citrus salad.” Looking up, I add, “I’ll let him pick the wine.”
As I probably could have guessed, Elliot orders the caldo tlalpeño—he always loved spicy food—and a bottle of the Horse & Plow sauvignon blanc before handing his menu to the waiter with quiet thanks.
Turning back to me, he says, “I knew exactly what you were going to order. Citrus salad? It’s like Macy’s food dream.”
My thoughts trip over one another at this, at how easy it is, at how in sync we still are right out of the gate. It’s too easy, really, and it feels unfaithful in a really surreal and backward way to the man who’s a couple of miles away, installing a television in the small home we share. I sit up, working to infuse some emotional distance into my posture.
“And she retreats . . .” Elliot says, studying me.
“I’m sorry,” I say. He reads every tiny move I make. I can’t fault him for it; I do the same thing. “It started feeling a little too familiar.”
“Because of the fiancé,” he says, tilting his head back, indicating elsewhere. “When’s the wedding?”
“My schedule is pretty nuts, so we haven’t set a date yet.” It’s partly the truth.
Elliot’s posture tells me he likes this answer—however disingenuous it may be—and it stirs the anxiety in my belly.
“But, we’re thinking next fall,” I add quickly, straying even further from the truth now. Sean and I haven’t discussed dates at all. Elliot narrows his eyes. “Though if it’s left to me, it will happen in whatever we’re wearing at the courthouse. I am apparently really uninterested in planning a wedding.”
Elliot doesn’t say much for a few loaded seconds, just lets my words reverberate around us. Then he gives me a simple “Ah.”
I clear my throat awkwardly. “So, tell me what you’ve been doing?”
He’s interrupted only briefly when the waiter returns with our wine, displaying the label for Elliot, opening it tableside, and offering a taste. There are ways in which Elliot’s confidence throws me, and this is one. He grew up in the heart of California wine country, so he must be comfortable with this, but I’ve never seen him taste wine at the table. We were so young . . .
“It’s great,” he tells the waiter, then turns back to me while he pours, clearly dismissing the man from his thoughts. “How far back should I go?”
“How about start with now?”
Elliot leans into his chair, thinking for a few moments before he seems to figure out where to begin. And then it all rolls out of him, easy and detailed. He tells me that his parents are still in Healdsburg (“We couldn’t pay Dad to retire.”); that Nick Jr. is the district attorney for Sonoma County (“The way he dresses is straight out of some bad crime show and I’d only say that in this safe space, but no one should wear sharkskin.”); Alex is in high school and an avid