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CHAPTER EIGHT
ETHAN
“Be honest with me.What's going on?”
“I'm sorry, what do you mean?”
Kristine looks at me, and she seems surprised. Her gaze is lost amid the lights illuminating the skyscrapers of New York.
The clink of fine china and the murmur of conversation swirl around us, a symphony of high-society dining atCibo Italiano. It's a place that commands attention with its gilded mirrors and crystal chandeliers casting a warm glow over every meticulously set table. Yet, despite the opulence enveloping us, Kristine seems adrift, her spirit untethered from the moment we're sharing.
“I asked what's going on.” I probe gently, leaning forward to catch her eye.
“I'm sorry, what do you mean?” Her reply comes quick, a reflexive parry to my concern. She gazes out the window where the cityscape unfurls like a canvas of living art—lights blinking and dancing across the steel and glass giants.
I thought this date would excite her. After all, it's our first one—a chance to leave our troubles at the door and indulge in each other's company. But there's a veil of preoccupation dimmingher olive-green eyes, eyes that usually hold a spark even when sadness tugs at their corners.
I watch her fingers toy with the stem of her wine glass, delicate and purposeful in their movement, much like the way she moves in ballet—a dance I've only seen her do through old videos she shared but feel through each fluid gesture she makes.
“You seem absent,” I continue, trying to coax out what lies beneath her polished exterior. “Like you'd rather be somewhere else.”
She blinks slowly, bringing her focus back to me. “Ethan, it's just been a long day.” Her voice is soft but doesn't carry the weight of truth. There's something more—something she's holding back.
The waiter arrives with our appetizers—a duo of scallops seared to perfection, resting on a bed of pureed cauliflower with a drizzle of aged balsamic. The scent alone is enough to draw a sigh from anyone who appreciates culinary artistry. Yet Kristine merely offers it an absent smile before turning back to face me.
“Ethan,” she starts again, then hesitates. I can see the internal struggle playing out across her face—the dance between disclosure and restraint.
The flavors of my own dish barely register as I wait for her to continue. The warmth of the restaurant seems to cool by degrees with each passing second of silence. Kristine is poised as ever in her elegance—her dark hair cascading in waves over her shoulders, framing her face that could inspire sonnets—and yet it's as if she's miles away.
“Something happened between that phone call and you getting in my car,” I say finally, not as an accusation but as an invitation for her trust. “Whatever it is, you don't have to carry it alone.”
Her gaze drops then flickers back up to mine, a silent battle raging behind those expressive eyes. My chest tightens at thesight—it's not just concern for what she might say but fear that whatever it is could wedge itself between us before we've even had the chance to explore what we might become.
She reaches out then, laying a hand atop mine on the tablecloth so white it seems to glow against our skin. The touch sends a jolt through me—electric and grounding all at once.
“Ethan,” she breathes out my name like it costs her something. “It's just... complicated.”
I cover her hand with my other one, feeling the coolness of her skin against mine—a contrast to the warmth between us that grows despite—or perhaps because of—the secrets she keeps locked away.
“Kristine,” I say softly, leaning closer across the table so our conversation remains between us. “Complicated is something I can handle.”
She smiles then—a fleeting thing that doesn't quite reach those eyes I'm learning to read like stanzas in a poem—but it's there, and it's real.
Kristine has been gone all night. Her eyes are lost, and she’s spacing out in the middle of conversations. It's unlike her. But I realize there’s nowhere else I’d rather be than right here, waiting for her walls to come down so we can face whatever's plaguing hertogether.
She seemed thrilled when I told her I had gotten the reservations. She loved the idea of us finally having a date beyond the walls of her apartment or mine, but now she seems indifferent.
The sight of her when she first came down to the parking lot put me on alert. Even then she looked absent, sad, but now it's clear that something is wrong with her.
“Sweetheart, when are you going to level with me?” I ask calmly, taking a sip of water. We've spent nearly every waking moment together for weeks. I can read this woman, but I alsodon't want to push and cause us to lose the traction we're gaining.
Kristine seems to think it over, but after a moment, she shakes her head and gives me a restrained smile. “I'm sorry, Ethan. It's nothing, I... The upcoming meeting with the attorneys has me nervous, that's all.”
Physical intimacy is natural and unrestrained between us. But for everything else, I find myself having to peel back one poised layer at a time, hoping to encounter the vibrant woman I get to experience between the sheets.
“Have you heard from your attorney? Any word from Brandon?” I inquire, aware that both tend to extinguish the brightness in her gaze.
Kristine possesses an equal measure of beauty and resilience. Many would crumble under such strain. She's resolute in facing this custody fight solo, and I'm just as resolute to help shoulder the burden.
