He should've been here.
He should've burst through the door with a dozen roses and an apology for being late. And everything would've been perfect, as if a million little, shining stars had aligned. I would've been so happy.
I wouldn't have been sitting here slowly sipping my third glass of water, trying my hardest to ignore the looks of sympathy cast my way from the maître d' and the servers. A basket of breadsticks is left untouched, so are the menus.
"He said he'd be here," I told the pretty blonde waitress named Tiffany as she made her rounds again.
All she did was nod. "I'm sure he will be. Wave me over if you need anything."
I told her I would.
The minutes tick by, and as each one does my heart sinks. The tears are threatening to fall. "He'll be here," I tell myself. "He said so." My heart doesn't believe me, neither does my mind. I feel like such a fool. It's like slow motion as the hour hand inches towards the eight. Sitting here in my best dress, with no one to impress. Why did I believe him?
Swallowing my pride, I reach for my purse.
I look up as I hear the front door creak open. Every hope is shattered when I see it isn't him. Instead it's some girl's Prince Charming, flustered and out of breath. He adjusts his suit as his eyes scan the building. He even got her roses.
"Traffic is horrendous," he tells the maître d'. Maybe he's stuck in traffic. "It's all backed up to Keene."
In the time it takes for me to compose myself the brunette Prince Charming has found his princess. I decide to torment myself and stay a few moments longer to watch the exchange, but when I get courage to look up the Prince Charming with roses in standing at my table with a smile.
"I'm so, so sorry I made you wait, love," he says to me, holding out the roses. "My phone died midway through my call to you."
I don't know what to say, so I don't say anything. I'm on my feet and have my arms around him tightly.
"Name's Alex," he whispers in my ear. "Whoever stood you up is one hell of a jerk."
He doesn't ask my name. Instead he helps me to my chair as I swallow a sob.
Tiffany is at our table as soon as Alex is seated. She's got that beautiful smile of hers on full display as she reaches for her notepad. "I was worried you weren't going to be showing," she comments. "I was worried I was going to have to find somewhere to hide another body. My basement's getting full."
Alex laughs nervously as I smile through the tears that silently streaming down my face.
"We'll take a bottle of your best wine, and some warm breadsticks if you don't mind, uh, Tiffany," he adds as his eyes find her nametag.
"Will do," she replies cheerfully.
I let my fingers dance over the soft red petals of one of the roses before I look at Alex again. When I do, I see he's watching me with a smile. The smile slowly disappears as he see the tears staining my cheeks.
"Don't cry," he mutters as he leans across the table and brushes the tears off my face.
"I can't help it."
"You look beautiful."
My cheeks flush. "Thank you."
Tiffany returns with the bottle of wine and more breadsticks. Alex takes the liberty of ordering for us after Tiffany's poured a decent amount of wine into each glass.
"So is this what you do in your spare time?" I ask as soon as Tiffany's out of earshot. "Save girls from embarrassing situations?"
"Only the pretty ones," Alex says. He reaches for a breadstick and takes a bite. "Mm. You should try one."
"Well, thank you," I sigh as I pick up my own breadstick. "I don't know why he didn't come. He said he'd be here."
"Maybe he got stuck behind that accident."
"There was an accident?"
"Yeah. I tend to do my research before I save the day. Makes it more believable, you know?"
I shake my head. "Well, he didn't come from Keene."
"Oh. I'm sorry." I can hear the sincerity in his voice.
"It's okay."
We eat breadsticks, dinner, and desert in mostly silence. Occasionally, Alex would crack a joke or tell me how much he loved my red lipstick. I'd laugh; I'd blush; I'd thank him. It was everything I wanted, but not with Alex.
Once the bill has been paid-curtsy of the one and only Alex-he walks me out to my car. I'm a giggly mess as I stumble down the sidewalk in my heels.
"Are you going to be okay to drive?" he asks.
"Yeah," I muse.
His eyebrow raises in a skeptic manner, and I'm left to prove that I'm sober enough to drive the four blocks to my house. He's not convinced, however, so I angrily tell him he can follow me if he's that worried. And he does. No one else would've made sure I got home safe. No one else would've carried me up the three flights of stairs. No one else would've cared.
As I'm lying in bed thinking about the evening, it hits me. My phone's ringing before I can dial up the number myself. And there's his name and picture flashing on the screen. I can reject it and save the trouble from what's about to come-a pitiful excuse of an apology-but I don't.
"Hello?"
"Hey. Listen, I'm sorry I didn't make it. Something came up."
"I'm sorry, too."
"What're you sorry for?"
"Not being good enough for you."
It's silent. I wait for something, anything, to prove me wrong. It never comes. Instead, he sighs. "You were always good enough."
And the call ended. And there I was sitting upright in bed when the realization hit. He never loved me.
