“Of course she did,” he snapped. “She wanted your one hundred and forty dollars. She doesn’t have to walk into a respectable restaurant with you.”
He released his grip on the wheel and let his hands fall to his lap, his knuckles white in the dim cabin light. He stared at the way the green silk gathered at my waist, his mouth twisting into a slight, hard line.
“You actually wore it,” he said.
“We talked about this at home, Damon. The kids are waiting inside.”
“They are waiting for their mother,” he said. “Not whatever this is.”
I smoothed my hands down my thighs, trying to flatten the silk. The fabric felt cool and thin under my palms, a sharp contrast to the heavy winter coats we usually wore by mid-October.
“It is just a dress for my birthday,” I said, keeping my voice soft. “I wanted to look nice.”
He reached for the keys in the ignition, his thumb remaining pressed against the metal casing of the keyring. He did not turn them, but the threat remained clear in the gesture.
“Nice is one thing,” he said, looking straight through the glass doors of The Gilded Lantern. “This is screaming for attention.”
“Jake and Lily spent weeks planning this,” I said, my hand resting on the plastic door latch. “They saved their own money to pay for this table.”
“Then they can enjoy it with you,” he said. “Go on in. I will wait here.”
“Damon, please. You cannot stay in the car.”
He let out a short, dry laugh that did not reach his eyes.
“I am not walking in there beside you looking like a desperate joke,” he said.
My breath caught in my throat, but I forced my hand toward the door handle.
“I am going inside,” I said, pressing the plastic latch.
The cold autumn air hit my face immediately, carrying the smell of damp earth and woodsmoke from the nearby houses. Damon unbuckled his seatbelt with a sharp click and pushed his own door open, stepping out into the gravel.
He did not walk around to my side of the car to offer a hand. He stood by his open door, his grey hair lifting in the wind as he glared across the roof of the sedan.
“Look at yourself, Elena,” he said, his voice rising over the sound of a passing SUV on Main Street.
“Please, Damon, keep your voice down,” I whispered, stepping onto the concrete curb.
The wind caught the hem of my dress, wrapping the emerald silk tight against my knees. I pulled my coat closer, but the front remained open, exposing the fabric.
“You look like you are trying to prove something to the world,” he said, his eyes scanning the bright fabric with disgust. “Like you want every man in there to stare at you.”
“That is not true,” I said, my chest tightening. “I just wanted to wear something that made me feel like myself again. Not just the woman who cleans the kitchen and folds the laundry.”
He took a step toward me, his face close enough that I could smell the peppermint on his breath.
“You are fifty, Elena. People our age don’t need to be seen. They need to be dignified.”
“And you think this is undignified?”
“I think it is a desperate attempt to hold onto something you lost twenty years ago,” he said, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper.
“Everyone in that dining room is going to wonder what you are trying to prove,” he said, stepping closer to me on the narrow sidewalk. “At your age, wearing something that bright. It is embarrassing.”
Two people at a small table on the fenced patio of the restaurant turned their heads toward us. I did not recognize them, but the older woman adjusted her reading glasses to get a clearer view of us standing near the low boxwood hedge.
“It is my fifty-first year starting today,” I said, keeping my hands at my sides. “I wanted to wear something that was not black or navy.”
“This is not about the color,” Damon said, his eyes scanning my face, searching for the familiar dip of my chin that usually signaled my surrender. “This is about you thinking you can just change who you are because of a number on a calendar.”
