The Wife Between Us(65)

“Get anything you want,” I told Sam as we opened our menus. “Remember, this is on me. Should we share a bottle of white Burgundy?”

“Sure. Whatever.”

I went through the wine-tasting routine, and we decided to split a rustic goat cheese and tomato tart and a watercress and grapefruit salad for appetizers. I then ordered the filet mignon, medium rare, with the sauce on the side. Sam chose the salmon.

A server came by the table holding a basket with four artfully arranged bread selections. He described each one and my stomach rumbled. The scent of warm bread has always been my kryptonite.

“None for me,” I said.

“I’ll take hers, then. Can I have the rosemary focaccia and the multigrain?”

“Does Tara eat bread?”

Sam dunked a piece in olive oil. “Sure. Why are you asking?”

I shrugged. “She just seems so healthy.”

“Yeah, but she’s not a zealot about it. She drinks and she even smokes weed once in a while. Last time we did it, we went to Central Park and rode the carousel.”

“Wait, you get high now?”

“Like, once a month, maybe. No big deal.” Sam lifted the bread to her mouth and I noticed her defined biceps again.

After a little pause, the waiter brought our salad and tart and we each took some.

“So, are you still dating that guy—the graphic designer?” I asked.

“Nah. But tomorrow night I’m going on a blind date with one of Tara’s client’s brothers.”

“Yeah?” I took a bite of salad. “What’s his story?”

“His name is Tom. He sounded great on the phone. He runs his own business. . . .”

I tried to feign enthusiasm as Sam told me about Tom, but I knew that the next time we spoke, Tom would be a vague memory of hers.

Sam reached for a spoon and added more tart to her plate. “You’re not eating much.”

“Just not that hungry.”

Sam looked me straight in the eye. “So why’d we come here?”

I’d always loved and hated her directness. “Because I wanted to treat you to something nice,” I said lightly.

Sam’s spoon made a clink as she dropped it back onto the plate. “I’m not a charity case. I can buy my own dinner.”

“You know that’s not what I meant.” I laughed, but for the first time, the cadence of our conversation seemed bumpy.

The waiter came by the table and topped off our wineglasses. I gratefully drank a bit more, then my phone vibrated. I pulled it out of my purse and saw Richard’s text: What are you up to, sweetheart?

Dinner with Sam, I texted back. We’re at Pica. What are you doing?

Heading to the golf course with clients. You’re taking a car home, right? Remember to set the alarm before you go to bed.

I will. Love you! I hadn’t mentioned that I was intending to sleep in the city. I wasn’t sure why. Maybe I thought Richard might suspect I was planning a long, late night of drinking, as I’d done before I met him.

“Sorry.” I put the phone back onto the table. But I laid it there facedown. “It was Richard. . . . He wanted to make sure I’d be okay getting home.”

“To the apartment?”

I shook my head. “I didn’t tell him I might sleep there. . . . He’s in Hong Kong, so—it just didn’t seem like a big deal.”

I saw Sam register that, but she didn’t comment.

“So!” Even I could hear the false note of cheer in my voice. Luckily the server appeared to clear our appetizers and bring the main courses.

“How is Richard? Tell me what you’ve been up to.”

“Well . . . he’s still traveling a lot, obviously.”

“And you’re drinking, so you’re not pregnant.”

“Yeah.” I felt the sting of tears and I drank more wine to buy time to compose myself.

“Are you okay?”

“Sure.” I tried to smile. “It’s just taking longer than we thought, I guess.” I felt a pang of nostalgia for the child I didn’t yet have.

I looked around at the other diners—couples leaning in toward each other across tables, and larger groups chatting animatedly. I wanted to talk to Sam the way we used to, but I didn’t know how to begin. I could bring up the interior designer who’d helped me select new upholstery for our dining room chairs. I could mention the hot tub Richard wanted to install in our backyard. I could show her all of the enviable bits of my life, the superficial things Sam wouldn’t have any interest in.

Sam and I had fought before—over stupid things, like when I lost one of her favorite hoop earrings, or when she forgot to mail our rent check. But tonight we weren’t fighting. It was worse than that. A distance was between us that wasn’t simply caused by time apart and geographical separation.

“Tell me about your kids this year.” I cut off a piece of steak and watched the juice seep onto the plate. Richard always ordered his steak medium rare, but in truth I preferred mine more pink than red.

“They’re mostly great. James Bond is my favorite—that kid has serious style. I’m stuck with Sleepy and Grumpy, though.”

“Could be worse. You could have the evil stepsisters.”

Sam’s nickname for Richard flashed in my mind again. The Prince. The blandly handsome guy who rides in to save the day, to give the heroine a luxurious new life.