The universe possessed a sick sense of humor.
There were a million things I wanted to say, but I stuck with something safe and neutral.
Me: Do they have those in California?
Heath: Pumpkin hot chocolate? Nah
Heath: You’re only allowed to drink smoothies and green juices here or you’ll get voted off the island
My small smile faded as quickly as it appeared.
We shouldn’t be talking, but I couldn’t bring myself to block him.
Heath: I’ve been emailing Bonnie Sue’s every day asking them to open shop in SF, but no dice so far
A pang hit me at the mention of Bonnie Sue’s.
It was a popular cafe near Columbia, where Heath and I had attended undergrad. It was famous for its seasonal pumpkin hot chocolate, and even though I didn’t like pumpkin and he didn’t like hot chocolate, we’d showed up every year for its annual return in mid-September.
Forget the fall equinox; the real first day of fall was the day the drink reappeared on Bonnie Sue’s menu.
Me: It’ll happen. Persistence always wins
Guilt ballooned in my chest as Heath and I exchanged more small talk. He asked about my job and the city; I asked about his dog and the weather in San Francisco.
It was our longest conversation in years. Normally, we only texted each other on holidays and birthdays, and we never talked on the phone. It was easier to pretend we were casual acquaintances that way even though we were anything but.
Heath Arnett.
My college best friend. My ex-boyfriend. And my first love.
Once upon a time, I thought we’d get married. I’d convinced myself we would overcome my parents’ objections and live happily ever after, but our breakup two years ago proved my hopes had been just that—hopes. Flimsy and insubstantial in the face of my parents’ wrath.
I shook off memories of that day and tried to refocus.
Me: How’s your company doing?
After our breakup, Heath moved to California and expanded his language-learning app into the powerhouse it was today. The last time I checked, it was one of the top fifteen most downloaded apps in the U.S.
Heath: Pretty amazing. We’re going public at the end of this year
Heath: We’re expecting a big IPO. Perhaps…
The three dots that indicated he was typing popped up, disappeared, then popped up again.
Heath: We can revisit things after it does
My guilt hardened into dread.
He didn’t know about the engagement. I hadn’t posted about it online, we didn’t have mutual friends anymore, and Heath didn’t follow the society pages, which meant I had to tell him. I couldn’t lie by omission and let him think there was a chance of us getting back together.
Heath: If you want to, of course
I could practically see him pushing his hand through his hair the way he always did when he was nervous.
My teeth dug into my bottom lip.
I knew part of the reason he’d worked so hard on the startup was to prove my parents wrong. They’d been furious when they found out I’d kept our relationship from them for years and even more furious when they discovered Heath didn’t come from an “appropriate” background.
At the time, he’d made a good living as a software engineer who’d worked on his app on the side, but he wasn’t a Russo or a Young. My father had threatened to disown me if I didn’t end things with Heath, and in the end, I’d chosen family over love.
Heath probably thought my parents would change their minds after his company went public and he became a millionaire. I didn’t have the heart to tell him they wouldn’t.
My family had plenty of money, but we were nouveau riche. No matter how much we donated to charity or how many zeroes we had in our bank accounts, certain parts of society would always remain closed to us…unless we married into old money.
Heath would never be old money, which meant my parents would never approve of him as a love match.
Just tell him.
I eased a deep breath into my lungs before I bit the bullet.
Me: I’m engaged
It wasn’t the smoothest transition, but it was short, clear, and direct.
I resisted falling back into my childhood habit of biting my nails while I waited for a reply.
It never came.
Me: It happened a few weeks ago. My parents set it up.
Me: I meant to tell you earlier
I should stop, but I couldn’t hold back my text version of word vomit.
Me: The wedding is in a year.
Crickets.
Five minutes passed, but my phone remained dark and silent.
I let out a small groan and tossed it to the side.
I shouldn’t feel guilty. Heath and I broke up a long time ago and, honestly, I was surprised he wanted a second chance. I would’ve thought—
A soft knock interrupted the chaos of my thoughts.
I sucked in another lungful of air and smoothed my expression into one of polite neutrality before I answered. “Come in.”
The door opened, revealing distinguished silver hair and a perfectly pressed black suit.
Edward, Dante’s butler.
“Ms. Vivian, Mr. Dante requested I take you on a full tour of the house,” he said, his British accent as crisp as his clothes. “Is now a good time, or would you like me to return at an hour of your choosing?”
I glanced at my phone, then at the cold, beautiful room around me.
Like it or not, this was now my home. I could lock myself in my suite, throw a pity party, and agonize over the past, or I could try and make the most of my situation.
I stood and summoned a smile that felt only mildly forced.
“Now is perfect.”
That night, Dante and I ate our first meal together as a couple.
I meant that in the loosest sense of the word.
I wore his ring, and we lived under the same roof, but the chasm between us made the Grand Canyon look like an ordinary hole in the ground.
I made a valiant attempt to close it. “I love your art collection,” I said. “The paintings are beautiful.” Except for the one that looks like cat vomit. The piece, titled Magda, was so out of place in his gallery I did a double take when I saw it. “Do you have a favorite piece?”
It wasn’t the most inspired topic, but I was grasping at straws. So far, I’d pulled six words out of Dante, three of which had been pass the salt. He was basically two devolutions away from being a nicely dressed mime.
“I don’t play favorites.” He cut into his steak.
My teeth clenched, but I swallowed my irritation.
Since our less-than-stellar interaction during my move-in, I’d moved past the shock and anger stages of our engagement into resignation.
I was stuck with Dante, whether I liked it or not. I had to make the most of it. If we didn’t…
Images of cold days, lonely nights, and fake smiles filled my head.
My stomach tightened with unease before I took a sip of water and tried again. “What are your expectations in private?”
His knife and fork paused over his plate. “Excuse me?”
A noticeable reaction. Progress.
“Earlier, you said we’ll play the part of a loving couple in public and warned me to, quote-unquote, get rid of any romantic notions I may have of us falling in love. But we never discussed what our private lives would look like beyond separate bedrooms,” I said. “Do we eat dinner together every night? Discuss our work problems? Go grocery shopping and argue over which brand of wine to buy?”