Never What It Was Chapter 2

I opened the bags and found that every piece of clothing had already been unwrapped.

The tags were gone, and there was a smear of dried sticky stuff on the beige slacks that had not been cleaned off. It had hardened, but the stain was obvious.

They could not be returned.

I stared at that stain the way I might stare at the wreckage of my three-year marriage.

"Who opened these?"

Linnea hesitated, then lowered her voice. "Grant opened them. He signed for the package and assumed they were for him, so he just..."

My tone was even. "He opened them. He got them dirty. And you brought them back for me to give to my parents?"

Her patience vanished.

"They were already open! What do you want me to do? The tags are cut off. I can't return them.

"These were sized for your parents. They wouldn't fit anyone else.

"If you don't want to give them to your parents, just throw them away!"

Would not fit anyone else. I did not need to ask who "anyone else" meant.

The truth was as absurd as it was plain. Grant's parents could not wear the clothes because they were the wrong size. That was the only reason Linnea had brought them back.

If they had fit, they would have disappeared the same way every other misdelivered package had before them.

I stuffed the clothes back into the bags. "You deal with it."

I turned toward the study, but Linnea called after me.

"Can you stop making a scene? I booked us a table at Fontaine's to apologize.

"It's a holiday. Can we please not fight over every little thing?"

She pulled me out the door, but when we arrived at the table she had reserved, someone was already sitting there.

He was wearing a three-piece suit, his hair styled with product, groomed from head to toe.

Meanwhile, I had been dragged out of the house in an oversized t-shirt and loose pants, looking like I had stepped outside to check the mailbox. I did not belong in a place like Fontaine's.

Linnea, in a fitted dress and full makeup, and Grant were more like a polished couple who had their lives together. I was the one tagging along uninvited.

I did not ask Linnea why Grant had arrived at the restaurant before us, at a dinner she had supposedly booked to apologize to me.

She pulled me into a chair and explained as we sat down. "Grant can't go home for the holiday. I've had this reservation for a while and he's been wanting to try this place, so I invited him along.

"He's younger than you. Just be the bigger person."

I looked at her.

Before we married, she had mentioned that her ex-boyfriend was six months older than me. Now she was telling me he was young and that I should be more understanding.

Whether she had genuinely forgotten or was simply showing her hand, I no longer cared to figure out.

She did not remember that I did not like this restaurant, but she remembered that Grant had been wanting to come here for months.

When she made the reservation, who was she really thinking of?

I did not ask the question out loud. There was no point.

I sat across from the two of them as they shared one side of the table, heads bent together over the menu the waiter had brought, ordering as if I were not there.

"You like macarons. Get one."

"I remember you do too. Let's get two."

"The escargot looks incredible."

"I knew you'd go for that! This place is famous for their escargot. You're going to love it."

When they finished ordering and handed the menu back to the waiter, they seemed to remember I existed.

Linnea cleared her throat. "We ordered enough for three."

Grant smiled, all sweetness. "Sorry, bro. Linnie and I just get carried away when it comes to food."

Linnie.

I pondered the name over and over in my head.

Two years of dating and three years of marriage. Linnea and Grant had broken up close to six years ago, yet he still called her that. She never so much as blinked.

Whenever I tried calling her "Lea" as a joke, she wrinkled her nose and told me to stop. She said it was cringey and that it gave her goosebumps.

The food began to arrive. Escargot, foie gras, oysters, mussels and poached salmon.

I looked at the spread and did not pick up my silverware.

Across from me, Grant had been bouncing with excitement since the first dish landed. Every new plate earned a small gasp, and he gripped his knife and fork like a kid who could not wait another second.

Linnea sliced a piece of foie gras with practiced ease and set it on his plate. He grinned at her with delighted surprise and thanked her.

Then she looked at me and frowned. "The salmon's here. That's your favorite. Why aren't you eating?"

"I'm allergic to seafood," I said. "I don't eat salmon."

She went still.