Robert’s eyes meet mine. “So he brought her here to make you jealous?”
“I don’t know; it’s not working. Well, I am jealous—I mean, look at her. She’s wearing the same dress as I am, and she looks way better in it.”
“No; no, she doesn’t,” he says quietly, and I smile, thanking him.
“We were getting along fine until yesterday. Well, fine for us. And then we got in a fight this morning—but we always fight. I mean, we fight all the time, so I don’t know what it is about this fight that’s so different, but it is. It’s different; it doesn’t feel like the rest of our fights, and now he’s ignoring me the way he used to when we first met.” I realize that I’ve been speaking more to myself than to this stranger with curious blue eyes. “I sound insane, I know I do. It’s the wine.”
The corners of his lips turn into a smile, and he shakes his head. “No, not insane at all.” Robert smiles, which brings a little laugh out of me. With a nod at my table, he says, “He’s looking at you.”
My head snaps up to look. Sure enough, Hardin’s eyes are on me and my new shrink, eyes that burn into me and make me literally flinch at their intensity.
“You should probably go inside,” I warn him. I’m expecting Hardin to get up from the table at any time, to rush out here and throw Robert over the deck and into the woods.
He doesn’t, though. He remains still, his fingers wrapped around the stem of a wineglass as he looks at me one last time before lifting his free hand and resting it across the back of Lillian’s chair. Oh God. My chest tightens at his callous action.
“I’m sorry,” Robert says.
I’d almost forgotten he was next to me.
“It’s fine, really. I should be used to it. I’ve been playing these games with him for six months now.” I cringe at the truth, cursing myself for not learning my lesson after one month, or two, or three—yet here I am outside with a stranger watching as Hardin shamelessly flirts with another girl. “I don’t know why I’m telling you all of this. I’m sorry.”
“Hey, I’m the one who asked,” he kindly reminds me. “And we’ve got plenty more wine, if you want some.” His smile is kind and playful.
“I certainly will need more.” I nod and turn away from the window. “Do you get this a lot? Half-drunk girls whining about their boyfriends?”
He chuckles. “No, actually, it’s usually rich old men complaining that their steak isn’t medium rare.”
“Like the guy at my table, the one in the red tie.” I gesture to Max. “God, he’s a jerk.”
Robert nods in agreement. “Yeah, he is. No offense, but anyone who sends a salad back because it has ‘too many olives’ is a jerk by definition.”
We both laugh, and I cover my mouth with the back of my hand, then worry that the laughter will bring some of my tears out.
“Right! He’s so serious, too, like he gave us this massive speech on his well-considered reasoning about olives after that.” I deepen my voice to try to mimic the annoying girl’s annoying father. “ ‘Too many olives overpowers the delicate yet earthy taste of the arugula.’ ”
Robert bursts out laughing, doubling over. Hands on his knees, he looks up, and asks in a voice much closer to Max’s than mine was, “ ‘Could I have four? Three just will not do, and five is far too many—it simply does not balance the flavor palate!’ ”
I lose myself in laughter to the point that my stomach is aching. I don’t know how long it lasts, but I hear a door open suddenly, and Robert and I both instinctively stop and look up . . . to see Hardin standing in the doorway.
I stand up straight, smoothing my dress. I can’t help but feel like I was doing something wrong, even though I know that I wasn’t.
“Am I interrupting something?” Hardin barks, commanding all attention.
“Yes,” I respond, my voice coming out as clear as I was hoping. My breath is still staccato from laughing so hard, my head is swimming from the wine, and my heart is aching over Hardin.
Hardin looks to Robert. “Apparently.”
Robert’s face still holds a smile, his eyes alight with humor as Hardin tries his best to intimidate him. But he doesn’t falter, he doesn’t even blink. Even he has had enough of Hardin’s shit—and he’s trained to always be nice. But here, out of earshot of the rest of the diners, he doesn’t seem to have a problem showing his amusement at Hardin’s absurd attitude.
“What do you want?” I ask Hardin. When he turns to me, his mouth is pressed in a hard line.
“Get inside,” he demands, but I shake my head. “Tessa, don’t play these games with me. Let’s go.”
He reaches for my arm, but I yank it away and stand my ground. “I said no. You go back inside—I’m sure your friend misses you,” I hiss.
“You . . .” Hardin looks back to Robert. “You should really be the one to go inside. Our drinks are in need of refilling,” he says, then snaps his fingers in the most insulting way possible.
“I’m off, actually. But I’m sure you can charm someone else into taking care of your drinks,” Robert says with a shrug.
Hardin’s stance falters momentarily; he’s not used to anyone talking back to him, especially not strangers.
“Okay, let me rephrase this . . .” He steps toward Robert. “Get the fuck away from her. Get inside and find something fucking else to do before I grab you by that fucking ridiculous collar and bash your head against that ledge.”