He Bet I Wanted Nothing, So I Left Him Nothing novel · Chapter 2 of 24

Chapter 2: Plastic Petals

On her birthday she thanks Tristan for the plastic flowers and the necklace, eats cheap diner pie, and sees a text on his phone telling him to give it a week.

On my birthday, Tristan handed me the flowers and the necklace exactly as promised.

The plastic petals had been crushed in the box. I straightened them while he watched.

The necklace was silver-plated, on a chain so thin it left a grey line on my skin when I tried it on.

"You don't think I cheaped out?" he asked later, in the back of a cab.

The seat smelled of old cigarettes. He had been breathing through his mouth since we got in.

I rolled down the window. Cool air moved over my face.

"No," I said. "I found a vase. They look nice on my desk next to the lamp."

That part was true.

He glanced at me. "I thought you might be upset."

"It's my birthday. I'd rather enjoy it."

He took my hand and rubbed his thumb over my knuckles, studying my face for the answer.

I knew he didn't believe me. The truth was too plain for him.

I used to like these ordinary evenings. I didn't need a driver or a tasting menu.

But I had heard him laughing with his friends, and sitting beside him now did not make me forget it.

The cab stopped outside a diner wedged between a laundromat and a closed pawnshop.

He must have spent longer finding a place this cheap than he ever spent choosing a restaurant he liked.

I caught his sleeve. "Let me pay for dinner."

"It's your birthday."

"I know. I want to."

"No." He sounded almost offended. "I said I'd take you out."

I didn't argue.

Inside, he hovered over the cracked vinyl booth before he sat. When the server brought menus, he kept his forearms off the table.

Grease had gathered along the kitchen pass. The ketchup bottle was sticky.

Tristan stared at a smear on his fork.

Our first date had been a food truck by a muddy lot. He sat on a folding stool holding his shoes off the ground, and when the grill smoke blew into his face he covered his nose.

I had counted the bills in my wallet.

"We could split something somewhere else," I had offered. "If you'd be more comfortable."

He had folded his arms. "This is fine. I told you what dating me would be like."

He didn't eat a bite. He didn't open his water.

Tonight he wiped his cutlery with a napkin and asked the server which burger came with fries.

He was getting better at this.

When she asked if we were celebrating something, he said, "Just dinner."

I folded my paper napkin in my lap.

When he went to wash his hands, she came back with an extra spoon and a slice of pie.

"On the house," she said. "I saw the flowers."

I thanked her. The kindness caught me off guard.

Tristan came back and looked at the plate.

"Did you order dessert?"

"She brought it over."

He relaxed. Then he pushed the second spoon toward me.

"You like the crust. Have mine."

I hated that he remembered. I hated that it still pleased me.

I ate slowly, trying to work out how both feelings could sit in the same ordinary evening.

"I'm glad you're not upset," he said.

He said it carefully. He was watching me eat, and I realized he was waiting for something.

The ask. The little cough before the sentence that started with "It's just that."

I put down my spoon.

"Tristan, I don't need anything."

His jaw moved.

"Everyone needs something," he said.

"Not from you."

It came out kinder than I meant it. He heard it as a joke and laughed.

I let him.

Outside, the cab was gone. He had told it to wait, and it had not.

We walked to the corner under one umbrella he held over my head and not his own.

I knew, then, that this was what made it so hard. He could be tender and cruel in the same hour and never notice they were different men.

At the crossing stood a jeweler's window with one pendant lit in the glass.

I told him the light made it look like a drop of water.

That was all I said.

He took out his phone.

The screen lit, and I read it over his arm before I could stop myself.

Hugh: Don't buy her the real one. Give it a week.

Tristan turned the phone face down against his coat.

"Nothing," he said. "Work."

The light changed.

I crossed the street beside him, and I did not ask what the real one was.

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