Eight Weeks to Mr. Right (20 page)

I looked as good as I could, I decided. My face was a little rounder than I would prefer, my eyes a little too far apart and blonde hair a little too flat, but I couldn’t change those things — certainly not right now. The dress, on the other hand, was perfect, a deep, sophisticated blue in a slightly shiny fabric that caught the light without being over-the-top.
 

Taking a deep breath, I pulled open the heavy door and stepped inside. The restaurant smelled amazing, like sizzling meat and wood smoke and garlic sautéeing in butter.
 

The hostess was a perfect specimen of woman, of course, tall and perfectly made-up and looking like she spent hours a day in the gym. I felt short, too thin, and too bubbly by comparison, but tonight it didn’t matter.
 

“Welcome to Les Etoiles,” the woman’s velvety voice said while I glanced around the room, spotting Matt over by a window. “Do you have a reservation with us tonight?”

“Actually, that’s my — boyfriend over there,” I said, and the hostess nodded as I went to join Matt. I’d almost gotten ahead of myself. I had almost said “fiancé.”

“You look beautiful,” Matt said in greeting as I sat down across from him, glowing with nervous excitement.
 

“You look nice too.”

We ordered wine from the server, another perfectly groomed woman with the kind of body I’d always dreamed of. My own body was thin and shapeless — small boobs, no waist to speak of. Tiny, according to Matt, though Matt had never seemed bothered by it.

My brain went blank and I couldn’t think of a thing to say to Matt. He seemed nervous too. We ordered entrees, steak for him and chicken for me — he always got steak, and I always got chicken. I wasn’t sure I’d be able to eat, as wonderful as everything sounded, because my insides were so jumpy.
 

“How was work?”

“Fine.”

We stayed on small talk until our meals came, and I wasn’t even sure what words my lips were saying. All I could think about was the moment ahead. When would it happen? Every movement of Matt’s, I wondered if he was getting the ring.
Mrs. Sophie Campbell
, I thought, trying on his last name.

The perfect waitress brought out our food, and we began to eat in silence. I was used to silence with Matt, and at least this felt more comfortable than the awkward small talk. We’d been together six years, since the last semester of college, and sometimes I felt like we’d already said everything to each other that we needed to say. Matt kept to himself a lot anyway.

The food was delicious, every bite cooked and seasoned to perfection, and the wine was making my cheeks glow contentedly.

Finally, mid-meal, Matt put down his fork, took a nervous sip on his wine, and cleared his throat.
 

My heart jumped.
This is it
, I thought. I put down my fork too, trying to steady my shaky breath.

“Sophie,” he began, looking me in the eye. I smiled. “I’ve had such a great time with you these past few years. We’ve become adults together, we’ve helped each other transition from college to careers.”

This was the most perfect night. Everything was at it should be. I glanced around the room quickly, trying to remember every detail, before landing back on his face. Matt was reserved, even with me, and I knew that talking about emotions was hard for him.
 

“But…” he continued.
But? But?!
I felt alarm bells going off in my head. What was this
but
?

“I feel like our relationship is not continuing to grow anymore. We’ve kind of stalled out in the past few years, don’t you think?”

I just stared at him, mouth agape, no longer breathing.

“Sophie…I think it’s time we move on. For both of us.”

Time stood still for a moment, the room feeling silent and tight.
 

Then I burst.
“What?”
I said, a little too loudly, and the couple at the next table glanced over at us.
 

“Sophie —”

“You
what?!”
 
I hissed, trying to control the volume of my voice. “You’re breaking up with me?” The anger and surprise won out over the hurt, but I knew it wouldn’t be long.
 

Matt shrugged helplessly, which just made me angrier.
 

“I— I—” I stuttered helplessly. There were no words. I was feeling and thinking so many things at once that it was impossible to order my thoughts into any sort of logical sequence. There was nowhere to start.
 

“I’m sorry, Soph,” he said. “I just don’t feel like we’re going anywhere.”

We’re not
going
anywhere because you refuse to move the relationship forward!
, I wanted to say, but the words caught in my throat in a jumble.
 

“How could you?” I finally managed to whisper, knowing the hurt was evident on my face. And the moment the words were out of my mouth, I began to cry — not a quiet, dignified cry, but loud, blubbery sobs. I tried to hold back, but once the dam had burst it was no use. “How could you —” I got out between sobs, trying to ignore the uncomfortable stares from fellow diners — “do this to me? Here? Why?”

“Sophie, there’s no good place for this,” Matt started gently, but I cut him off.
 

“In public? At a nice restaurant?” It was hard to be indignant while falling to pieces, but I thought I pulled it off well.
 

“Look, we’re not ending on bad terms,” he said, a bit too defensively. “I thought we could do one last thing together that we’ve been talking about doing for a long time. Do something nice as our last hurrah. Besides,” he added, sitting up a bit straighter in his seat and glancing surreptitiously around the room, “I thought that being in public would make it easier. We could have a nice, mature conversation without it turning…too emotional.”

I could’ve punched him. “
Too emotional?
” I said, too loudly. “I’m sorry that our relationship is
emotional
to me.”
 

There was so much left I wanted to say, but I’d been holding words back for years, holding my feelings in for years, and right here in one of the nicest restaurants in the city was not the place to change that. I already felt humiliated enough for one night, I decided. And as soon as I had the thought, all I wanted was to get out of there as quickly as possible. I felt as though I were suffocating in all that wood smoke and butter and spice.
 

The “nice girl” in me wanted me to be polite. Absurdly, it told me to stay through the end of the meal, or at the very least to say goodbye to Matt civilly before leaving. The nice girl in me told me to consider that maybe he was right, or at least that maybe we
could
have a mature conversation about this. It told me not to rock the boat, not to risk anything, not to say anything I couldn’t take back.
 

But there was no more boat to rock, was there?
 

He’ll change his mind
, the voice told her.
You have to be mature about this.

With all of these conflicting voices in her head and all these years of being careful to do the right thing and think of others’ feelings, I pushed down the urge that I truly wanted to indulge: to scream at Matt and tell him to go fuck himself.
 

But I also didn’t stay for the polite, mature conversation. Without another word, without another glance his way, I got up from the table, wiping what I knew would be mascara-infused tears from my cheeks with the back of my hand, and walked quickly out of the restaurant without looking at anyone.