Chapter 6

                                        

                                              

Caden
I sat at the back table of Antico Forno, alone, nursing my Pellegrino and the growing certainty that she wasn't coming. I knew it before I even sat down, but I had to be sure. And I couldn't not be here in case she did show. 
The server checked in—twice. I waved him off with a polite "just a few more minutes." He nodded and walked away, but I could feel the pity. Of course, I deserved it.
The reservation had been on the books for weeks. Originally a rain check for our last anniversary. Before I screwed up. Before I forgot her birthday was this week. Before I handed the only gift I'd ever picked out for her—personally, intentionally—to my daughter without thinking.
Now this dinner had become something else. A Hail Mary.
I watched the door for thirty-three minutes. Every time it opened, I looked up. Every time it wasn't her, my gut twisted tighter.
At 7:44, I flagged down the server.
"Can I get a few things to go?"
He raised an eyebrow. "Sure. Anything in particular?"
I ordered all of Felicity's favorites. The spinach gnocchi with sage butter. The eggplant parm she used to insist no one made better. A side of broccolini she always asked them to char a little extra. And for dessert—the flourless chocolate torte with the orange glaze.
As he walked away, I sat for another moment, imagining what this dinner could've been if I'd manned up sooner. If I'd seen her—really seen her—before she reached the end of her rope.
But this wasn't about what could've been. It was about what came next.
______________________
The house was dark when I got back. I didn't know where she'd gone. Didn't ask. I just moved through the kitchen like I was trying not to spook someone.
I unpacked the food carefully, transferring it to plates. The ones she chose when we got married. The matte ceramic ones she insisted were "modern but timeless." She was right. About those. About a lot.
One place setting.
Her favorite drink.
I didn't know when she would be home, so I set out candles and laid the lighter next to them. I may be an idiot, but at least I won't burn our house down.
I didn't sit down. Didn't linger. Just folded the letter I wrote, slid it under the dessert lid, and left it all for her.
No expectations. No performance. Just a table and a truth I was finally ready to own.
Then I went upstairs to bed.
Felicity
I didn't mean to be gone so long. I'd left without a plan—just a need to move, to not be home when the reservation time came and went. I walked until the lights of the city blurred. Took the long way back on purpose.
By the time I unlocked the door, it was nearly nine.
The house was quiet.
But not empty.
The smell hit first—warm, rich, unmistakably Italian. Garlic, sage, tomato.
I blinked, stepped farther in. The light from the dining room spilled low across the floor. I turned the corner and stopped.
The table was set for one.
Just one.
My seat. My sparkling water.  Plates with covers on them. After lifting the covers, I saw the feast laid out—Gnocchi, broccolini, eggplant parm—every favorite.
And beside the dessert box, a folded slip of paper with my name on it.
I picked it up with careful fingers, already bracing for too little, too late. As I opened the letter, I took a sip of wine and reached for my fork. May as well eat while I read. Heartbreak didn't mean I had to let this go to waste!
Felicity—
I know I've let you down. I know that showing up late doesn't undo what I've already broken.
I don't expect this to fix things. I just wanted to offer something quiet. Something without pressure. A table with your name on it, because you deserve that. You've always deserved that.
I forgot what matters. Somewhere between boardrooms and broken promises, I let the most important thing in my life become an afterthought. I see that now. God how I wish I'd seen it before. But I can't change the past. I can only beg forgiveness for it. I can only work to build a future where you feel nothing but loved.
I'm not going to ask you to believe in my words. I'm going to show you. Every day. With heart and actions—Not with empty purchases of jewelry or flowers. I'm going to show you that you are—and always have been—the love of my life.
Love,
Caden
I sat down slowly. My chest was tight, but my eyes burned with something warmer than anger.
No performance. No apologies laced with excuses.
Just food. A table. A letter.
And maybe, finally, something real.