He doesn’t even look up; all he does is smirk.
If I didn’t think he’d use it against me in court, I’d wipe that smirk off of his face with my glass of water.
“I’m serious,” I say, snapping my own menu open. “I’m here to talk about Hope, nothing else.”
Glancing up, our eyes meet and lock in silent battle over our menus. In the depths of his baby blues I see a flash of anger.
The wine arrives with our waiter and Carson’s dazzling smile returns.
“Are you ready to order, sir?” Our waiter asks politely.
Carson nods and shuts his menu, handing it up. “I’ll have the linguine with clam and she’ll have the chicken marsala.”
My eyes widen in disbelief. Did he just have the gall to order for me? The waiter turns to me expectantly, waiting for me to hand my menu up.
“I don’t want chicken marsala.” I smile tightly at the waiter and he glances towards Carson, looking supremely uncomfortable. I’d feel bad but honestly it was Carson who put him in this spot.
Snapping my menu shut, I hand it up. “I want the lasagna.” The waiter nods before scurrying off.
“Was that necessary?” Carson hisses at me and picks up his glass of wine, throwing it back like it’s a shot.
I shrug. “You shouldn’t have presumed to know what I want.”
“A mistake I can’t seem to stop making,” he grits out, setting his now empty glass down on the table with a loud clink.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
He regards me coolly for a long moment before finally answering. “No matter how hard I try I can’t seem to please you.”
“What?!” I blurt out a little too loudly, drawing a few curious looks. “Are you serious?” I ask leaning closer to the table, dropping my voice to almost a whisper.
“Yes, I’m serious, Grace,” he answers and waves a waiter over, asking for a wine refill.
I pick my own glass up now and take a sip from it. The wine is a deep red, very dry and bitter. It suits my mood perfectly right now.
Once the waiter is out of earshot, I ask, just laying it all out there, “How have you tried to please me? The problem has always been that you don’t try at all.”
“I’m trying,” he insists angrily.
“How?”
“I’m stepping up for our daughter.”
“After four years of never being there!” And I’d hardly call what he’s doing now stepping up.
“Would you please lower your voice,” he hisses between his teeth, forcing a smile as the waiter returns with his wine.
I take a deep breath and let it out slowly.
Carson takes a sip of his wine. “You never wanted me around.”
“That’s not true,” I immediately deny.
“It is,” he sighs and leans back in his chair.
I really feel like a trick or something is being played on me right now. I glance around the restaurant half expecting someone to jump out with a camera, telling me I just got punked. I can’t even count how many nights I was up crying after Hope was born because I felt so alone and overwhelmed.
“I wanted you around. I needed you around, but you never answered my texts or phone calls.”