Forgetting You

Chapter 8

I'm standing in front of one of the restaurants on the Main Street of Anne Rose Beach, waiting for the hostess to return so I can be seated. As I glance to my left, my eyes widen in surprise as I notice Henry, of all people, sitting at the same restaurant. Of course, he would be eating here too. I shouldn't be surprised, the universe has been conspiring against me since I got here.

I should go. I should probably find another place to eat, but my feet won't budge. I'm just stuck here, gazing at him, while he seems unfazed, not having noticed me yet.

"Hi, welcome to La Crème. Do you have a reservation?" The hostess interrupts my thoughts as she approaches the stand.

"Um, no, I don't," I reply, my peripheral vision catching Henry looking over from his table.

"Well, unfortunately, we're fully booked right now. The wait for a table is about forty-five minutes. Would you like to wait?" she asks.

I can't help but smile at her question, finding it slightly amusing. "Um, my name is Chloe Kensington. My father is Ethan Kensington," I say, trying to emphasize who I am, hoping it might speed things up.

The hostess looks at me with a puzzled expression, her eyes scanning the reservation list. "So, you do have a reservation then?" she asks.

"I'm sorry, do you know who I am?" I ask, maintaining a polite tone.

The hostess pauses for a moment. "No?" she replies hesitantly.

I let out a frustrated grunt. This would never happen in New York, let alone in any other restaurant owned by my father. "My family owns–" I start to say, but I can see and hear Henry chuckling from my peripheral. I quickly abandon my attempt to assert authority. "You know what, never mind. I'll wait."

She jots down my name on her tablet, and I stand off to the side, waiting impatiently. It feels like an eternity has passed, but when I check my phone for the time, only five minutes have ticked by. I groan internally, wishing time would move faster. Meanwhile, Henry's gaze seems fixed on me as I stand there, waiting for a table.

I should really just leave.

"You want to sit? There's room," he asks, his voice laced with amusement, as he gestures to the vacant seat next to him at his table.

I consider his offer for a moment, trying to maintain a composed facade. "No thanks. I can wait," I respond, my tone polite but guarded, avoiding direct eye contact with him.

I had a great time with Henry and his friends the other day. I missed being around him, and for a brief moment, it felt like everything had returned to normal. But that wasn't the path I had chosen for us. I ended the relationship. I didn't want to be with him. So I can't. I can't go back on my decision. At least that's what I keep repeating to myself.

The waiter goes up to Henry's table, I watch as he orders his drink and then another five minutes pass and I'm starting to lose my patience. Just as my frustration begins to bubble up, Henry locks his eyes with mine, a subtle smirk playing at the corners of his lips. He takes a deliberate, leisurely sip of his water, teasingly reminding me that he has secured a table while I remain waiting.