ASTRID
To someone who used to love spending so much time with Tristan, it's strange how I keep drawing my gaze to my wrist, counting down to when I can finally walk out of this restaurant, get in my car, and go home.
My mom is nowhere in sight. I even asked one of the waitpersons if they'd seen her, and the lady said no. She went further to say that Mom didn't make any reservations.
I fiddle with the napkin, wrinkling it and imagining it's wrapped around Tristan's neck. He hasn't changed at all. The nerves of him to expect me to show up in a red dress because he said so amuses me. What the hell!
How can one man be so arrogant, rude, spiteful, dramatic, and, of course, incapable of reading the room? I should be pissed, right? Pissed that I had put up with him for two years. But I guess
