EMILY
The restaurant Alex picked has white tablecloths and candles and a woman playing cello in the corner and I am in a safety-pinned blouse.
I see him through the window before I walk in. Charcoal suit. Hair combed back. He’s sitting at a corner table straightening the napkin beside his plate, adjusting it, then adjusting it again. Alex doesn’t fidget. Alex walks into rooms like he was born standing in them. He is nervous tonight, and the fact that I know what his nervousness looks like after four years makes the thing sitting in my stomach heavier.
I push through the door. He stands. He always stands when I arrive. Four years and he has never once stayed seated when I walked toward him.
“Hey.” He kisses my cheek. His hand on my elbow. “You came.”
“You asked me to.”
“I know. I just
