The waiter slides our bill onto the marble table with the kind of practised discretion that comes with working at restaurants where the bread basket costs more than most people's lunch.
I'm mid laugh at something Roland just said about his crew accidentally ordering pink insulation when my hand moves automatically toward my purse. Force of habit. Three years of splitting every cheque, every coffee, every bloody parking meter because that's what independent women do, right?
Except Roland's already reaching for his wallet.
My fingers freeze around the leather strap of my bag. My chest goes tight. Not panic, exactly, but its annoying younger sibling.
"I've got this," Roland says, pulling out his credit card like it's no big deal. Like he hasn't just triggered every alarm bell I've spent years installing.
"No." The word comes out sharper than I intended. "We should split it."
He pauses, card halfway to the little black folder. "Cam, it's fine. I asked you out, remember?"
"That doesn't mean you have to pay."
Now he's looking at me properly. Not the easy, distracted way he was thirty seconds ago, but with the kind of focus that makes me want to check if there's spinach in my teeth.
"I know I don't have to. I want to."
And there it is. The exact phrase that used to make David's eyes go all predatory before he'd launch into his favourite lecture about how real men take care of their women. How my insistence on paying my own way was emasculating him.
I snatch the bill before Roland can stop me. "Sixty three pounds each."
"Camille."
"What? I can do maths, Roland. I am an accountant."
He sits back against the leather booth, and I catch a whiff of his cologne mixed with sawdust. He must have come straight from a job site. David would never have shown up to dinner smelling like work. David thought manual labour was beneath him, which should have been my first red flag, considering his trust fund came from three generations of steelworkers.
"This isn't about the money," Roland says quietly.
"Of course it's about the money. Everything's about money."
"Not for me."
I want to laugh. Everyone says that. Everyone thinks they're above it all until they're holding your bank card hostage and explaining why you can't afford yoga classes when you've got a perfectly good floor for stretching.
I pull out my credit card, the one with my name on it, the one that I pay off every month from my own account, and set it down with enough force that it makes a satisfying clink against the marble.
Roland doesn't move. Doesn't argue. Just watches me.
The silence stretches between us. A woman at the next table laughs at something her date says, and I wonder what that feels like. Being able to just enjoy someone buying you dinner without your brain immediately calculating the emotional cost.
"You know what the worst part is?" Roland's voice is quieter now. Different. "I'm not David."
We've never really talked about David. Not properly. Roland knows the basics. My ex husband was controlling. The divorce was messy. I'd rather eat glass than depend on a man financially ever again. But we've managed to dance around the ugly details for the past eight months.
"I know you're not." But even as I say it, my hand stays protectively over my credit card.
"Do you?"
The question hangs in the air. I want to say yes, of course I do, don't be ridiculous. But there's something in the way he's looking at me, patient but hurt, that makes the words stick in my throat.
The waiter appears at exactly the wrong moment, hovering with that special brand of nervous energy waitstaff get when they sense couple drama brewing.
"Will you be paying together or separately?" he asks.
"Separately," I say quickly.
"Together," Roland says at the same time.
The waiter's eyes dart between us like he's watching a tennis match. Poor kid.
Roland sighs and hands over his card. "Just put it all on here."
"Roland, no."
"Camille, yes."
"I can pay for my own bloody dinner."
"I know you can. That's not the point."
"Then what is the point?"
He looks at me for a long moment. "The point is that sometimes I want to do nice things for you. Not because you can't do them yourself. Because I care about you."
Care. It should sound sweet, romantic even. Instead, it lands in my stomach like a stone. Because caring leads to expectations. Expectations lead to control. And control leads to sitting in a lawyer's office at thirty four, trying to explain why you need your husband's signature to access your own bloody savings account.
The waiter takes Roland's card and scurries away.
"You don't get it," I say finally.
"Then explain it to me."
I stare down at the table. There's a small chip in the marble near my elbow. "David used to do that. Pay for things. Said it was romantic."
"Okay."
"Then he'd use it against me. Everything went in his mental ledger. Things I owed him for."
Roland's jaw tightens. "What kind of things?"
I shrug, trying for casual. "The usual. Why I needed to quit my job. Why I shouldn't see my friends so much."
"Jesus, Cam."
"So you'll forgive me if I'm a bit twitchy about who pays for dinner."
The waiter returns with Roland's card and two little leather folders. Roland signs his slip with short, efficient strokes while I sit there feeling simultaneously vindicated and completely mental.
"I'm not him," Roland says again, not looking up from the receipt.
"I know."
"No, you don't. If you did, you wouldn't flinch every time I try to do something nice for you."
He's right. God help me, he's absolutely right, and that makes it worse somehow.
"It's not about you," I say weakly.
"Isn't it?" He slides the signed receipt back into the folder. "Because from where I'm sitting, it feels pretty personal."
We sit in silence for a moment. Around us, normal couples finish their normal dinners. A man feeds his girlfriend a bite of dessert. She laughs and wipes chocolate from his chin.
"I should go," I say, already reaching for my bag.
"Camille, wait."
But I'm already standing, my chair scraping against the floor with the kind of screech that makes other diners look over. Perfect. Now we're that couple.
Roland catches up with me in the car park, his longer stride eating up the distance between us.
"Don't walk away from this," he says.
"I'm not walking away. I'm going home."
"Same thing."
I stop next to my car, keys clutched in my hand. The evening air is crisp, carrying the scent of rain.
"What do you want from me, Roland?"
"I want you to let me take care of you sometimes."
"Why?"
The question seems to catch him off guard. He runs a hand through his hair, leaving it sticking up at odd angles. "Because I love you."
The L word, dropped into the space between us. We've been skirting around it for weeks, both of us probably thinking it but neither brave enough to say it out loud.
"Do you?" I ask, and my voice sounds strange.
"Yes."
"Even though I'm completely mental about money?"
"Even though."
I lean against my car. "I don't know how to do this, Roland. The letting people take care of me thing. I'm not sure I ever did."
"We can figure it out together."
Together. Another one of those words that should sound comforting but makes me want to run.
But Roland's standing there looking at me like I hung the moon, even though I've just made a complete spectacle of myself over a restaurant bill.
"I'm sorry," I say finally. "About dinner. About all of it."
He steps closer, close enough that I can see the flecks of gold in his brown eyes. "You don't have to be sorry for protecting yourself."
"Even when I'm protecting myself from you?"
"Even then."
He reaches out like he's going to touch my face, then stops himself. Waiting for permission. Always waiting for permission, this man.
"Can I drive you home?" he asks.
I look at my car, then back at him. "What about my car?"
"We'll get it tomorrow."
Depending on him for a ride home. Such a small thing. Such a normal thing.
"Okay," I say.
Comments (0)