I raise my glass with a mocking smile. "To another meeting."
She picks up hers and drinks without a word like she's chugging down cheap vinegary junk. If she noticed the excellent vintage, she doesn't show it. But then she was rarely impressed with wine.
After placing her empty glass on the table, she looks away and leans back in her seat, toying with the neckline of her shirt. She's nervous. Feeling guilty about the way she left me? She should be. What she did was a shit move. And I want her to feel terrible about it. That's the least she owes me.
Our server brings out our appetizer. I barely glance at it. My attention is on the woman opposite.
I can't help but notice-again-how much thinner she is. And it's annoying as hell. She didn't weigh much to begin with, and she really can't afford to lose more and stay healthy.
Why should I give a damn? She should be as miserable as I've been.
But I can't help caring. She told me once …
"Seriously? You actually like peanut butter and jelly sandwiches?" She makes a face, her fork hovering over her salad.
"Sometimes, when I'm in the mood." I grin. "Why? Did you think my favorite food was caviar or something?"
Her nose wrinkles adorably. "It wouldn't surprise me if you were born with it clutched in your fists." She shakes her head. "I can't stand them. I even looked forward to Mondays when I was growing up because of them."
"What does a PBJ have to do with Monday?"
"I got to go back to school."
She stretches her legs under the shabby table at the small Greek restaurant and pops an olive into her mouth.
I laugh. "You must've been a nerd." I generally found Mondays unbearable because my classes were boring and pointless.
She snorted. "No. It's because on Mondays I was able to eat something other than peanut butter and jelly sandwiches."
"I don't get it."
A mild flush rises in her cheeks. "When I was growing up, that was basically all we could afford. My mom … She tried really hard, but it wasn't easy on minimum wage."
I still can't quite connect the dots, which makes me scowl. I'm usually great at connecting dots.
"You can't relate, can you?" she asks, half-amused and half-sad.
"Sorry." Ava seems disappointed somehow, so I do something I don't usually do with women-I explain. "I grew up in Europe. Boarding schools." The best money could buy, et cetera, et cetera.
Sighing, she drops her gaze. "We were poor enough that I got free lunches, and the school cafeteria served pasta and pizza and … you know. Anything but PB and J."
I stare at her. I donate regularly to Elizabeth's charitable causes, but I don't understand that kind of poverty. I probably never will. I study her thin frame. I assumed she got her figure from diet and exercise, but now I realize she got it from not eating enough-from hunger. The fact that Ava suffered at all makes me angry, but I stop before showing how upset I am. Her gaze has lost its happy glimmer.
I force myself to say lightly, "Then it's a good thing none of the restaurants I plan to take you to serve that abominable sandwich."
She blinks, then giggles. "Oh yeah. That'd definitely be grounds for a breakup."
As the merry tinkling sound of her laughter washes over me, I vow she will never lack for anything. I will never let her go hungry again.
And I'm not letting her go hungry now.
"Eat." I push the appetizer toward her. "We can talk afterward."
She stares at a point somewhere behind me. "Why don't we just pretend that we ate?"
"Because Ava … I'm hungry, and I'm ill-tempered when I'm hungry. You know that."
"Ah yes. You and your food." Her lips purse for a moment-a sign that she's thinking. Finally, she reaches over and begins nibbling. Then she starts eating with more gusto. Probably it's finally hit her that she really ought to eat more.
I sip my wine and let the excellent flavor coat my mouth. Just what happened to her since she left me? It never crossed my mind that she might not be doing well. In my mind's eye she lives a kickass life, carefree and merry without a fucked-up shit like me by her side.
I wait until we're done with our entrées, noting her clean plate with approval. I give her the rest of the wine, and she accepts. Her face is no longer pale, the alcohol and food giving her a rosy glow.
"Thank you," she says.
"My pleasure."
My well-mannered response rolls out, bred into me by a desperate need to please my mother. But it isn't just a platitude. Watching her eat the food I provided for her is satisfying. Absurdly so.
She puts a hand on her belly. "I can't eat anymore. So … " She starts to push her chair back.