Page 24 of Don’t Say Mafia

I stared at him, then at the plates, then at the candle. “It’s three in the morning.”

“So?” He shrugged, unfazed. “You work nights.”

That was true. But it had also been true last night . . . and the night before that. I opened my mouth to say something, anything, when he tilted his head and studied my face. “You didn’t really think I’d forget our anniversary, did you?”

His words immediately nauseated me.

“Oh,” I said stupidly, the sound barely more than air. My mind scrambled backward anyway, rifling through memories like drawers I hadn’t opened in a while until I landed on the courthouse and how we’d stood in front of a judge with our cheap rings and even cheaper promises.

I had completely forgotten. I was immediately ashamed of myself, and the feeling sank even deeper than my exhaustion. “I— Ryan, I didn’t⁠—”

He laughed, and the sound caught me off guard. I hadn’t heard it in so long it almost didn’t belong to him anymore. “Relax,” he said easily. “I know you’ve been busy.”

Busy. The word felt like a kindness I didn’t deserve.

I looked at the candle again, at the care in the small details, and I wanted to throw up. I should have remembered. I should have planned something. I’d let the days blur together until even something like this slipped through the cracks.

“I’m sorry,” I said quietly.

He waved it off, but his eyes lingered on me like he was trying to read something in my face. I concentrated hard on not thinking about the way someone else’s stare had felt earlier tonight, and how it had done something to me that my husband’s gaze never did.

“Sit,” he said gently. “I wanted this to be nice.”

I walked to the table like my body was operating on a delay, each step slower than it should have been. I sank into the chair just as he plated the food with a small, theatrical flourish, clearly pleased with himself. My breath caught when I saw what he’d just served.

Steak . . . real steak, and not a thin cut. He’d taken the time to sear it properly, which I didn’t even know he knew how to do, and he’d even melted butter on top. My first thought wasn’t gratitude or surprise, though. It was panic.

“Ryan,” I said quietly before I could stop myself, “how did you pay for this?”

The smile on his face faltered, just a fraction, before hardening into something defensive. “Fucking hell, Eden. Can you not do this?”

“I’m just asking,” I said, keeping my voice even. “We didn’t have groceries this morning.”

“So what?” he snapped. “I can’t do something nice without you interrogating me?”

“That’s not⁠—”

“It’s always something,” he cut in, turning back toward the stove as if the pan suddenly needed his full attention. “I’m trying to do something for us, and you immediately assume the worst.”

There it was again, that familiar twist of guilt. I pressed my lips together. “I’m sorry,” I whispered.

Ryan didn’t look at me as he sat down and picked up his fork. “Can we just eat?”

I quickly nodded . . . and we did.

The steak was good. Better than good. It was perfectly cooked, and I savored each bite, even though I was very aware with every swallow that we couldn’t afford this. The candle flickered between us, casting soft shadows that made the apartment feel almost . . . romantic.

Almost.

Ryan talked first, filling the silence the way he always did when it grew uncomfortable. “I know things have been rough,” he said, his tone gentler now, the earlier edge gone as though it had never existed. “I know I’ve been stressed. You’ve been stressed. But it’s temporary.”

I nodded, keeping my eyes on my plate.

“I’ve got things in the pipeline,” he continued. “Real things. Opportunities. You’ll see. We’re not going to be scraping by like this forever.”

Pipeline. Opportunities. The words were familiar, and worn thin from repetition.

I murmured something agreeable, going through the motions of lifting my fork and chewing and swallowing. On the outside, I played my part of the supportive, patient wife who believed him . . . while inside, I was just sad.