Shallow River

He chuckles. “You’re not. I check your clothing.”

Don’t freak out. Don’t freak out.

“Why?” I whisper.

“You affect my image, River. I can’t risk that when I’m trying to earn my way to the top.”

He’s already graduated law school and gaining a clientele at his father’s firm. Still, I’m not sure how a woman wearing above a size five has anything to do with that. If I get in an argument about the woman’s body, he’ll turn us around and won’t let me eat for the rest of the night. Desperately, I want to argue about how wrong it is to consider any woman above five fat and how obtuse he’s acting, but I don’t want to ruin our date before it’s even started.

Furthermore, I’m fucking hungry.

I clear my throat and force a smile. “I won’t gain any more weight, don’t worry. I’ve been a size five since I was seventeen.” Actually, I was a size zero because of malnourishment, but I don’t mention that.

I’m not in Shallow Hill anymore. I’ve risen above that, and at a healthy weight. I watch my diet for the most part and exercise weekly. My time in Shallow Hill isn’t something I’m willing to dwell on.

We arrive at a four Michelin star restaurant named Rosebud. I’d obviously never been, though I had heard the food here is absolutely divine. When we walk in, wonder seizes my entire being. The restaurant is decorated with shades of white and blue, with grand arches in each entryway and carefully styled plants and pricy art decorating the place. It’s quiet in here, the customers speaking in low tones and holding their knives and forks daintily. It’s a little posh for my taste, but I’m sure I could get used to it.

Hopefully.

A beautiful fountain the size of my house in Shallow Hill is in the entrance where the hostess awaits for guests. When she spots us, she immediately recognizes Ryan. A bright smile stretches across her face petite face, and a low heat simmers in her brown eyes. She’s pretty. And she’s looking at my boyfriend like she knows more about him than she should.

“Good evening Mr. Fitzgerald. Please follow me, your table is ready.”

The woman leads us back to a separate room that overlooks the lake. The sun is already beginning to set, its fingers stretching across the sparkling water. Reds, purples and pinks burst from the sun, painting the sky with cotton candy watercolors.

Ryan pulls my chair out for me, before sitting in his own. The woman walks away, shooting one last lustful glance at Ryan before our waiter approaches.

If it were the other way around, Ryan would have already called me a whore for attracting attention. Maybe I should do the same.

“Would you like a bottle of wine, Mr. Fitzgerald?” the waiter asks, his tone respectful.

“Bring the Chateau Petrus Pomerol,” he says. The waiter dips his head and rushes off to grab the bottle. I don’t know much about wine, but I can guess it’s damn expensive.

I look over the menu, the options limited but still overwhelming. Everything sounds good, and to my embarrassment, my stomach rumbles as I consider my options.

The waiter comes back, promptly pouring Ryan and I a glass of wine, before setting the bottle in a bucket of ice to chill. He then reads off the specials.

Ryan lets me order my food first, and then his own. When the waiter leaves with our order, I take a sip of the wine, and nearly fall out of my chair.

“This is delicious,” I rave, taking another sip. Ryan smiles, pleased by my reaction.

“I’m glad you like it, babe,” he says, studying me closely as I take another sip. I set the glass down before I start guzzling it. Somehow, I doubt Ryan would appreciate it.

Since I affect his image apparently.

“I have to make an appearance at a charity event in September. You’ll be my date, right, baby?”

My heart melts at his boyish tone.

“Of course. I’ll start looking for a dress now.”

“Don’t worry about that, I’ll find you a dress,” he says, taking a sip of his own wine. I cover my frown with my glass.

“You don’t want me to pick out my own dress?”

He sighs with impatience, seemingly becoming fed up with me. I don’t know why. “Why do you always make me out to be the bad guy? Have you considered that maybe I just want to treat you? Take some stress off your shoulders so you don’t have to worry about it?”

I deflate, disappointed in myself.