I’d been talking to Lily for about a week before she suggested we go out. She was stunning—long auburn hair, bright green eyes, and a smile that made her Instagram pictures look like something out of a magazine. I was surprised she was interested in me, but hey, sometimes luck strikes in unexpected ways.
She picked the place. A high-end steakhouse downtown. The kind of place where the valet expects a hefty tip and the menu doesn’t show prices because, well, if you have to ask, you probably can’t afford it. But I wanted to make a good impression, so I agreed.
From the moment we sat down, though, something felt off.
Lily barely looked at me. Her eyes were glued to her phone, fingers dancing over the screen as she texted someone. Every few minutes, it would buzz, and she’d either reply immediately or pick up the call without so much as an apology.
The waitress, a woman in her late twenties with a kind smile and warm brown eyes, approached our table. Her name tag read Emily.
“Can I get you started with something to drink?” she asked, looking between us.
“I’ll have a whiskey neat,” I said, trying to act like this was totally normal.
Lily, still staring at her phone, waved a dismissive hand. “Mmm. Whatever house cocktail you have that’s sweet. Oh, and bring me the crab-stuffed mushrooms. And the steak. Medium rare. Do you guys still do the truffle butter?”
