Heather

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Javis picks me up at seven sharp, looking every bit the polished man my parents adore.

His tailored suit is dark gray, perfectly pressed, and the faint scent of his cologne-something crisp and woodsy-lingers in the car as he opens the door for me.

He's charming, I'll give him that.

A little too charming.

"You look beautiful tonight," he says as I slide into the passenger seat. His smile is movie-star perfect, like it's been practiced in the mirror a hundred times.

"Thank you," I reply, smoothing out my dress.

It's a deep emerald green, the kind of thing my mom would gush over and call "tastefully elegant."

We drive to the lucky posh restaurant, and I feel like I'm suffocating in the silence between his light attempts at small talk.

I know I should be making more effort, but my mind keeps wandering back to Robin.

It's been hours since she left the apartment, and she hasn't called.

She hasn't texted.

Not even a half-hearted, "Hey, thanks for the good time."

Is that how she operates? A weekend of fun and then poof-nothing?

I glance at Javis as he drives, his face sharp under the soft glow of the dashboard lights.

He really is attractive in a conventional sort of way-strong jawline, perfect blond hair, the kind of face you'd see on the cover of a corporate magazine.

People probably look at us and think we're the ultimate power couple.

But I can't stop wondering if Robin even gave me a second thought after she walked out my door.

The restaurant is one of those upscale places where everything feels too perfect, as expected of course.

The lighting is dim, the waiters slide silently between tables, and the wine glasses are taller than necessary.

As soon as we step in, heads turn. I can practically feel people sizing us up, their eyes lingering a little too long.

Javis smiles, nodding politely at someone he recognizes across the room, and I realize how much he loves this. Being admired. Being noticed. Being envied.

We're led to a table near the back, and the waiter pours our wine with a flourish before disappearing. Javis leans back in his chair, his smile still firmly in place.

"You're quiet tonight," he says, tilting his head slightly.

How would he know? This is like the second time we are alone together and he thinks he knows me too well already.

"Just tired," I lie, taking a sip of wine.

The truth is, I don't want to be here. I don't want to talk about wedding dates and family dinners. I don't want to think about how perfect this all looks on the outside when I feel like I'm suffocating on the inside.

Javis launches into a story about his company-something about a new contract or an office renovation. I nod along, making all the right noises, but I'm not really listening.

My mind has already drifted back to Robin.

Why didn't she text me? Did I misread everything? Was this just a fling for her, something casual and meaningless?

Ugh, I'm being dumb.

Of course it was a fling. We met on a hook-up app for heaven's sake! How can I expect more?

"And what about you?" Javis asks, snapping me back to the restaurant.

I look around, plastering that smile on my face again.

"Sorry, what?"

"I was asking about your new project," he says, his smile tightening just a fraction. He is displeased.

"Oh, right. It's... good," I say, fumbling for words. "We're designing a new office space downtown. Lots of natural light, open concept. You'd love it."

"Sounds impressive," he says, leaning forward slightly. "You're always so committed. It's one of the things I admire about you."

I smile politely, but his compliment feels blank. Forced.

I know he's trying to connect and make this feel natural, but the more he talks, the more I feel like I'm playing a part in a play I didn't audition for.

The conversation shifts to the engagement. We talk about dates, venues, the inevitable family dinner where both sides will meet and pretend to adore each other.

Javis seems excited, like he's already imagining the Instagram-worthy photos of us toasting with champagne and smiling like we're in a magazine spread.

"It's going to be perfect," he says, his voice full of certainty.

"Sure," I say, trying to match his enthusiasm.

But the truth is, I don't feel perfect. I feel like I'm trapped. Which is literally what is happening.

But this life has been planned out for me by my parents, by society, by expectations I never agreed to.

By the time dinner is over, I'm exhausted. Javis insists on paying, of course, and the waiter practically beams at him as he leaves a generous tip. I think she even makes sure her boobs are popping out just to mess with his dick a little.

Javis being the gentle man in the face of the world, he keeps his eyes on me with a smile.

As we walk out of the restaurant, his hand brushes against mine, before he gentle places it on my back. The contact makes my skin crawl, but what's worse is the guilt in my git.

He's not a bad person. In fact, he's probably exactly the kind of man I should want to marry. Handsome, successful, charming.

He checks all the boxes.

So why does it feel like I'm choking every time I'm around him?

And mind you, this is the man I'm supposed to spend my entire life with!

The car ride back to my apartment is quiet. Javis hums along to the music, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel, while I stare out the window and try to make sense of the knot in my stomach.

When we pull up outside my building, he turns to me with that hot smile again.

"I had a great time tonight."

"Me too," I lie, unbuckling my seatbelt.

Before I can get out, he leans over and presses a gentle kiss to my lips.

It's soft, sweet, the kind that should make my heart flutter on any other day, but it doesn't.

All I can think about is Robin doing the same thing. Only with her, it felt different. It made me feel alive.

"Goodnight, Heather," Javis says, pulling back with a smile.

"Goodnight," I reply, stepping out of the car.

I watch as he drives away. When his taillights disappear into the distance, I feel like I can finally breathe again.

Back in my apartment, I kick off my heels and sink onto the couch. I glance at my phone on the coffee table, half-expecting a message from Robin. But the screen is blank.

I don't know why I care so much. It was just a weekend. A fling. Something I should be able to brush off and forget about.

But I can't stop thinking about her.

I pick up my phone, my fingers hovering over the screen. Part of me wants to text her, and see if she's thinking about me too. But another part of me-the rational, sensible part-tells me to let it go.

She's probably already moved on. And maybe I should too.

But what if she hasn't?