The restaurant was everything I imagined for our anniversary—dim golden lighting, velvet booths, the faint clink of wine glasses weaving through soft piano music. Ethan reached across the table, squeezing my hand with that familiar smile. “Happy anniversary, Mara. Tonight’s about us.”
I believed him.
We ordered champagne. We laughed about how quickly a year had passed, how the wedding still felt like yesterday. For a while, it was perfect. Then the waiter arrived—tall, polished, his notepad tucked neatly under his arm.
“Good evening,” he said, flashing a professional smile. Then his eyes flicked to Ethan, recognition softening his face. “Good to see you again, sir. The usual table.”
My heart skipped. Usual table?
The waiter turned to me, but before I could speak, he rattled it off smoothly: “For your wife, I’ll bring the truffle risotto with extra parmesan, and for you, the ribeye, medium rare, with the peppercorn sauce. Correct?”
My stomach tightened. I hadn’t said a word.
Ethan froze. His smile faltered, and he shook his head too quickly. “Oh—uh—we’ll need menus.”
The waiter blinked, confused. “Of course. My apologies. I just assumed—” He trailed off, cheeks coloring, then hurried away.
I sat perfectly still, every nerve in my body alert. My hands clenched in my lap. “The usual?” I whispered. “He knew my order.”
Ethan’s laugh was forced, brittle. “Coincidence. Lucky guess.”
But the way his eyes avoided mine told me it wasn’t.
“Lucky guess?” I repeated, my voice sharper now. “How would he know I like truffle risotto with extra parmesan? I’ve never been here before.”
Ethan shifted in his seat, tugging at his cuff. “Mara, don’t make this into something it’s not.”
“Then tell me what it is.”
His silence was heavier than the candlelit air between us. The piano music blurred into static. My chest pounded, my throat dry. I looked at the candle flickering between us and thought about how fragile flame is—how quickly it can vanish.
Finally, Ethan exhaled. “I came here before. With… someone else.”
The words sliced me open.
“Who?” My voice cracked, the question clawing its way out of my throat even though I already knew the answer.
His eyes closed for a beat, then opened. “Claire.”
Her name hung between us like smoke. Always her. The ghost I never invited, yet she sat at our table every time I turned around.
The waiter returned nervously with menus, setting them down without making eye contact. My vision blurred. I stared at the black leather cover, my fingers trembling against it.
“You brought her here,” I whispered. “To this table. You ordered for her. You fed her my favorite dish before I ever tasted it.”
Ethan leaned forward, desperation flooding his eyes. “Mara, listen to me. It was before you. It didn’t mean anything. I chose you. I married you.”
“But she was here,” I shot back, my voice shaking. “And now every bite I take tonight will taste like her shadow.”
The piano stopped. Conversations at nearby tables hushed. People were listening, pretending not to.
I pushed back my chair, the sound screeching against the polished floor. My hands were ice, my heart on fire. “You promised me this night was about us. But even here, she’s at our table.”
Ethan stood too, his face pale, his voice frantic. “Please. Don’t let her ruin this. Don’t let the past ruin us.”
I stared at him, at the man I thought I knew, the man who swore I was his forever. And all I could see was Claire’s ghost leaning across this same table, laughing at the same candlelight, eating the same dish.
I turned and walked out, the smell of garlic and parmesan clinging to my dress like betrayal.
Final Thought
Sometimes it isn’t the lies that hurt the most—it’s the truth hidden in a waiter’s memory, proof that the love you thought was yours alone was once rehearsed with someone else.