I Can Afford My Own Dinner

Working through the night to pull the project across the finish line left me running on fumes. My first instinct when it was over was to text Willie, to ask him out for a nice dinner and celebrate. But opening our chat, the reality of us hit me: we hadn’t spoken in nearly two weeks. The little digital spark that kept our thread alive had flickered out three years ago. The screen still held his last messages: [Bella, stop being mad over such a petty thing.] [I have to help my mentee prep her competition portfolio tonight. Don't wait up, I'll bring you an iced latte on my way back.] He was busy guiding a young girl through her career. I was busy working, chasing deadlines, squeezing onto crowded subway cars. I’d forgotten to reply. I'd even forgotten what little thing had triggered our latest silent war. Staring at the glowing screen, a quiet realization washed over me—I had, without a sound, slipped right out of his life. … I locked my phone and went to get fondue at a cozy spot downtown I hadn’t visited in ages. The waitress was wiping down a table when I walked in. She froze, rag in hand. "Oh," she said, looking up. "You haven't been here in a month, right?" I hesitated for a second. "Yeah. Been busy." She glanced behind me. "Just one? Where's your boyfriend?" My hand paused on the back of the chair. "We broke up." Those words, once so terrifying to speak, slipped out of my mouth with an almost eerie ease. Natural. Light. She let out a soft "oh," her face tightening with a brief, awkward sympathy. "Then... where would you like to sit? Your usual spot?" "Yes, please." She led me to the booth by the window. It was a table set for two, with an extra, useless set of forks and a dipping plate resting on the opposite side. As I sat down, my mind drifted. Right after high school graduation, when we first started dating, we stumbled across a meme listing the 'ten levels of loneliness.' Eating fondue alone was level eight. I had forwarded it to him with a crying emoji. He replied instantly: [Don't worry, you'll never hit level eight.] [Why?] I had asked. [Because I'll always be sitting right across from you, cooking your steak skewers.] Followed by three little pig emojis. I had laughed for a long time, saving a screenshot of that exchange. And for a long time, I really never ate fondue alone. From high school through college, and then into our working years, he was always there. He would always snatch the meat out of the boiling broth just as it cooked, dipping it in the garlic-butter sauce and putting it on my plate with a familiar tease: "Look at you, so clumsy." But eventually, I learned to ride the subway alone. I worked until midnight alone. I sat in the ER with an IV drip alone. I spent birthdays and anniversaries alone. I even went to try on wedding dresses alone. Being alone, I realized, wasn't actually that hard. The pot arrived, the seasoned broth bubbling in the center of the table. I lowered a beef skewer into the broth, watching it cook. He used to insist on doing this, claiming his timing kept the meat tender. I lifted a piece to my mouth, the hot broth stinging the tip of my tongue, numbing it. The numbness let my thoughts wander. Was this actually a breakup? Neither of us had uttered the words. I couldn't even remember the details of our last fight. I just remembered slamming the door, him leaving for the lab to review data, and then those final two texts. He had brought home the iced latte that night. I didn't drink it, and he never asked why. We became like two roommates sharing a lease, polite enough to take turns changing the trash bags, but nothing more. I didn't know who stopped talking first. I just remembered coming home late one night to the sound of his voice echoing from the study. He was on a Zoom call, his tone incredibly patient, explaining a concept, punctuated by a couple of light, easy laughs. I stood by the door for a moment before going in to grab my charger. He looked up, gave a brief nod, and immediately returned his eyes to the screen. It was a shared presentation. In the corner of the screen was the avatar that used to trigger an instant argument within three seconds—his mentee, Daisy. He didn't bother to hide it, and I no longer cared. I grabbed the charger and walked out. That night, we lay in bed, a pillow’s worth of empty space stretching between us. He slept with his back to me, his breathing steady and even. I stared at the back of his head for what felt like hours, wondering: if I spoke right now, would he turn around? But I forgot if I ever made a sound. The next morning, he was gone before I woke, the sheets cold. On the kitchen island lay some breakfast, pinned down by a sticky note: [Meeting tonight. Won't be home for dinner.] And that was how we lived. The waitress came over to refill the broth. "Miss, your couples' membership is about to expire," she said, holding the heavy metal pitcher as steam billowed from the spout. "It's the ten-year anniversary promotion we ran—deposit five hundred, get a thousand. There's still about two hundred dollars left on it. I asked the manager, and you can still renew it with the bonus if you do it today." Before I could answer, the chimes above the door jingled. Willie walked in, followed by a young woman. Ponytail, white jacket, a camera slung around her neck. "Stand under the light, Boss! Let me take a quick photo," she said, tugging lightly at his sleeve. "Let's eat first. You've been starving yourself these past few days." "No way! You've been mentoring me for three whole years, practically living at my place to help me prep. Now that I’ve won the gold prize, I need a picture to commemorate this," she insisted. He shook his head with a fond smile, reaching out to gently disentangle her camera strap from her jacket zipper. "Watch what you say." "I'm serious," she said, clicking the shutter and peering at the screen. "Oh, by the way, isn't today your anniversary with your girlfriend? Won't she be upset that you're celebrating with me?" He paused. "It's fine. She knows I'm busy. She doesn't mind." "Really?" Daisy beamed, grabbing his arm. "That's great! Let's order. I want the triple cheese fondue." He took a couple of steps with her, then his eyes drifted up and locked onto me. His footsteps halted. He pulled his hand out of his pocket, then slipped it back in. "Bella. You're here." I didn't stand up. My fork held a roasted potato wedge. "Yeah," I said. "Having fondue." Ten years of shared habits meant we even picked the exact same restaurant to celebrate. He was celebrating his mentee's big win. I was celebrating the completion of a project that would secure my partnership at the firm. But both of us had forgotten that today was our ten-year anniversary. Daisy leaned over to look at my table. "Oh, a split-pot broth. You're so cute, sitting all by yourself with a half-Cajun, half-garlic-wine broth." Willie stood by the edge of the booth, silent. Daisy had already raised her camera, snapping photos of the bubbling cheese, then turning to the window to photograph the streetlights and passersby. "Let me take one of you," she said, aiming the lens directly at my face. "I'll title it: 'Eating Fondue Alone: Which Level of Loneliness Is This?'" The shutter clicked. My hand froze. The potato wedge slipped back into the boiling broth, splashing a tiny drop of hot liquid onto the table. "Delete it." Daisy blinked, lowering the camera. "Excuse me?" "The photo. Delete it." Daisy looked at the camera screen, then up at Willie. He stood there, a slight crease forming between his brows. "Bella, it's just a picture. Don't make a scene." "I said, delete it," I repeated, staring directly at him. Willie's frown deepened. "Why do you always have to make things difficult for her? It's just a photo. It's not like she's going to post it anywhere." I stood up, stepped around the table, and reached for the camera. Daisy took a step back, feigning a stumble, her elbow jerking outward. The camera strap whipped across my wrist. My hand swerved, knocking directly into the dipping ramekin on the edge of the table. Warm garlic butter splattered across the wood, some of it catching my hand. I winced, pulling back. "Oh my god, I'm so sorry!" Daisy cried. "Are you okay?" Willie stepped forward, reaching for my wrist. "Did you get burned? Let me see—" I ignored him, snatched the camera from her hands, and deleted the photo myself. Daisy bit her lower lip, her voice dropping to a meek whisper. "I really didn't mean to... I just tripped..." Willie looked at me, his gaze briefly passing over my reddened hand. "Clean yourself up. I'll get her settled at another table and come right back." They walked to a table three rows over. The waitress hurried over with some burn ointment. "About the membership card..." she said awkwardly. "Should we... renew it?" I looked down at the bubbling broth. "No. Don't renew it." I pulled out my phone and sent a text to my boss: [I'll take the partner track. A girl's got to afford her own fondue.] As I looked up, I caught Willie watching me from a distance. It was the same look he always gave me whenever I threw a tantrum—patient, slightly amused, waiting for me to cool down and soothe myself. I wondered how he could be so distracted. After all, the new favorite was right beside him; the old love was just background noise. He always prided himself on 'knowing what mattered.' The first time I realized there was a new girl in his lab was when she called him, sobbing because her PowerPoint wouldn't open. That night, I was meeting his parents for the very first time. He left halfway through dinner, leaving me to face them alone. Back then, though frustrated, I convinced myself to be understanding. She was just a rookie; mentors had to mentor. But then she started calling him at midnight to 'discuss sudden inspiration.' He would slip on a jacket, head out to the balcony, and talk for two hours. Then she began using his database credentials. To make things easy, he changed his password to her birthday. By the time she claimed the front passenger seat of his car as her personal spot, we had fought more times than I could count. I was never good at arguing. I would repeat the same line: "Can you please remember who your actual girlfriend is?" He wasn't good at arguing either. He would always shoot back: "She's just a student. Stop being so petty." Afterward, he would lock himself in the study, and I would cry in the living room. Eventually, the screaming stopped, replaced by cold silence. One day, three days, a week... neither of us would speak. Until I would ask him to bring me a cup of coffee. Even though he knew my order by heart, he would still ask me what kind of milk I wanted, every single time. And that was how we 'made up.' It felt like if I didn't bow my head first, this relationship would simply cease to exist. ... Daisy tugged at Willie's sleeve, pointing at the menu. He leaned down, his profile softening, his dimples vanishing into a smile. I ate my last piece of potato, stood up, and went to the front counter to pay. The cashier looked up. "Oh, your table has already been paid for, ma'am. Your boyfriend," she pointed toward their table, "that gentleman over there paid." I glanced over. He was currently dipping a fresh piece of chicken into cheese for Daisy, teasing her: "Look at you, suddenly losing your appetite when the food actually gets here." Daisy laughed, pushing his shoulder. I turned back to the cashier. "Ex-boyfriend." The cashier blinked. "Oh... then..." "It's fine." I pulled out my phone to Venmo him the money. I typed out: [Sending you the money for dinner. We—] The cursor blinked. That was when I noticed the green bubble at the bottom of our chat. [I'll take the partner track. A girl's got to afford her own fondue.] My fingers froze for two long seconds. In my rush, I had sent the message meant for my boss to Willie. His chat was still pinned to the top of my list. We had texted about date nights thousands of times over the years. [Fondue tonight?] [My treat, you pay.] My thumbs had simply acted on a decade of muscle memory. No wonder he had paid my bill. He actually thought I couldn't afford dinner. I stared at the text, letting out a quiet, self-deprecating laugh. I turned and walked out. As the door swung open, the warm, savory aroma of the restaurant hit my back like a gentle push, nudging me out into the cool night. I had only reached the streetlamp when I heard hurried footsteps behind me. He was running, his coat fluttering in the wind. "I told you to wait for me," he said, a touch of exasperated affection in his voice—the exact tone he used whenever he did something nice and I failed to show proper gratitude. "Why did you just leave?" I stopped. He stood in front of me, slipping off his jacket to drape it over my shoulders. "Look at you, moving up in the world," he said, a small smile playing on his lips. "Making partner? No wonder you're working so hard. You can eat all the fondue you want now." He patted my shoulder. "Come on. The car's parked over there." He took a few steps, then paused, expecting me to follow. It was so natural. Just like all those times he locked himself in the study, waiting for me to finish crying before I'd go knock on his door to ask him to open a bottle of water for me. He assumed this time would be no different. The words gathered in my throat. But before I could speak, a sharp gasp came from the steps nearby. Daisy was leaning against a billboard, clutching her ankle, keeping her foot off the ground. She looked over, her voice laced with panic. "Boss... I'm okay. I just twisted it a little..." Willie froze. Daisy waved her hand dismissively. "Go ahead. I'll just sit here for a bit. Don't worry about me..." She tried to take a step, stumbled, and grabbed the billboard again. Willie looked at me. It was a glance so fleeting I didn't even have time to utter the word 'breakup' before he turned and ran back to her. "Don't move," he called out. "Stay right there. Let me look." The wind swept under the streetlamp. The jacket he had draped over my shoulders slipped, falling silently onto the pavement. I bent down, picked it up, brushed off the dust, and hung it over the metal railing nearby. Then I turned and walked away. When we first got together, there was no grand confession. We were having fondue, he put a piece of steak on my plate and said, "Let's eat like this forever," and I said, "Okay." It was as natural as water flowing downstream. And so was the end. We didn't need a formal date to sit down and discuss it. Every time he looked at his phone instead of listening to me, every time he shut the study door, every time he ran to her side... those two words had already been written. I had just refused to read them. I pulled out my phone as I walked. My boss's contact had a red notification dot. I tapped it. [To become a partner, you must accept an overseas relocation. It's a three-year minimum at the London office. Think it over carefully.] The cursor blinked in the input box. I typed: [Are flights reimbursed?] The phone buzzed instantly with a facepalm emoji from my boss, followed by a thumbs-up. [Only you would ask about that.] I locked the screen and slipped the phone into my pocket. At the intersection ahead, a right turn led to the subway; a left turn led back to the apartment we shared. I turned right. Standing behind the yellow line on the platform, I watched my reflection in the glass barrier doors. My expression was flat—neither crying nor smiling, just tired. My bags were already packed and stored at the office. I had known this partnership was mine for the taking. And I had known, for a long time, that I didn't want him anymore.