Loretta tried to smile.
Her lips pulled upward in that faint, almost brittle way that never reached her eyes. Even she could feel the hollowness in it, as though her own face was betraying her.
She tried to act like the food tasted good, like the candles and flowers meant something, like she wasn’t unraveling inside. The chicken had gone cool by now, the rosemary garnish fragrant but unappetizing, and every bite she forced past her lips felt like chewing ash. The flickering light of the candles danced across the tablecloth and plates, trying to create warmth, but Loretta felt none of it.
But it was all a lie.
She sat across from Martin at the garden table he’d set up so thoughtfully, trying to pretend she was present, trying to pretend her heart wasn’t somewhere else entirely. The tabl
