Poppy had been seeing her British ex regularly since the London junket, and I knew that she was beginning to think more seriously about calling off her whole mission to date as many Parisian men as possible.
She was silent for a long moment. “Emma, it’s a different situation,” she said quietly. “Darren and I both did a lot to hurt each other. We both made mistakes. And who knows what will happen now? We haven’t made any decisions. We’re just seeing where things go.”
“Maybe that’s all I’m doing, too,” I said defensively.
“But, Emma,” Poppy said, “it’s different. Brett moved on by sleeping with your best friend. And you weren’t just dating, you were engaged. He kicked you out of your house.”
“So?” I asked in a small voice.
“So,” Poppy said gently. “Don’t you wonder what’s motivating him now? Why has he changed his mind so quickly? It just doesn’t feel right to me.”
The day after I talked to Poppy, Brett took me out to dinner again, this time to Seasons 52, a restaurant I loved down on Sand Lake Road. He booked my favorite table alongside the lake out back, and he ordered a bottle of my favorite wine—a smooth Petite Syrah—and the artichoke and goat cheese flatbread I adored.
“See, babe?” he said after we had started sipping our wine. “I remember exactly what you like. We just fit.”
But Poppy’s words had been gnawing away at me for the past twenty-four hours.
“Why?” I asked slowly.
Brett looked confused. “Why what?”
“Why do we fit?” I asked slowly. “Why do you think we’re so perfect together? And why are you so intent on getting back together with me?”
“Because I love you,” Brett answered promptly. “Because I made a huge mistake. C’mon, Emma, we’ve been over this. You know how much I care. You know how I feel.”
I thought for a moment. “What about your parents?” I asked. “They never thought I was good enough for you, did they? They wanted you to marry some Ivy League girl or something.”
“That’s not true,” Brett said.
“Yes, it is,” I said. “I know it is. They’ve always acted like I was a disappointment. Like you could do so much better.”
“Well, then why are they so eager to have me get back together with you, then?” Brett asked triumphantly.
I stared at him in surprise. “Your parents want us to get back together?” I had just assumed that Operation-Win-Emma-Back had been a secret from them.
Brett nodded vigorously. “Yes! They’ve even invited you over to dinner this week. They’re thrilled about us.”
“They are?”
Brett nodded again. “They were mortified when we broke up,” he said. “They said it made the family look bad. They even stopped paying me my allowance.”
“Your allowance?”
Brett blinked a few times and turned scarlet. “Um, yeah,” he said. “I guess I never told you. But they gave me some money every month. Something about a tax write-off.”
“How much money?” I asked slowly, thinking of all the times Brett had insisted we split the check fifty–fifty when we went out to eat.
Brett paused. “Five thousand dollars.”
I dropped my fork.
“A month?” I asked, my voice cracking as it went up several octaves.
Brett nodded and had the decency to look embarrassed.
I digested this for a moment. “And they’ve stopped paying you this allowance?” I repeated. I was starting to feel a little sick. “Until you can get me back?”
Brett nodded again, not seeming to realize he was talking himself into a hole. “They called it their grandbaby fund.” He chuckled. “They’re ready for us to get married and start having kids, Emma. I mean, if that doesn’t prove to you how much they care about you, I don’t know what will.”
“Brett,” I said patiently, “that doesn’t mean they care about me. That means that they care about how our broken engagement made them look. And they care about being grandparents. I’m just the quickest route to that.”
Brett tilted his head to the side. “That’s not true. They love you, Emma. Just like I do.”
“Do you really?” I asked flatly. “Or are you just trying to get me back so that you can win back your allowance?”
Brett opened and closed his mouth, fishlike. “I can’t believe you’d even ask that,” he said after a moment.
Just then, my cell phone rang. Grateful for an excuse to escape the conversation momentarily, I dove for it.
“You’re going to answer your phone in the middle of dinner?” Brett made a face.
“Yes,” I said. I checked the caller ID. UNAVAILABLE. It could be a sales call, for all I knew, but at least it would give me a temporary escape. “It’s an important call.”
I stood up and walked away from the table toward the outside bar area. Knowing that Brett was watching me, I sank down into a lounge chair with my back to him and pressed SEND to answer.
“Emma?” It was Poppy, and she sounded excited. “Where are you?”
“Out to dinner with Brett,” I mumbled.
“What?”