1. Clarissa

“Are you ready?”I ask, looking over to Tyree.

The sun is just setting, but not before bright blades of light hit the perfect angle, highlighting the almost orange-amber glow of his eyes. My knees go weak, and I smile.

“I was born ready, baby. Truthfully, we can pack all this up, and I’ll meet you at City Hall,” he says, walking closer to me. “You can wear whatever you want as long as you make me your husband.”

He takes my hand and pulls me to his chest. The soft fabric of his cotton silk blend shirt I got for his thirtieth birthday two years ago bunches under my fingertips.

“I’ve literally been planning this since I was five. No way are we running to the courthouse,” I say with a smile.

He squeezes my hip and slides his nose along my neck, cocooning us in a bubble of warmth that I melt into. “I know, baby. It’s just the planning can be a lot.”

I want to take his words personally, but how can I? There’s truth in each syllable. We’re in the thick of wedding planning, and it’s not for the faint of heart. Even with my vision that was decided well before I knew the true meaning of marriage, I still find this process exhausting at times.

“We better get going. Don’t want to be late.”

His warm breath rushes from my words, and the weight of his head pulls us closer. We’re still in the midst of winter, but I do nothing to deter this moment. I allow the chill to seep into my bones. It’s comfortable and familiar, and I sink my toes into my shoes and wrap my arms around his waist.

“I love you, Clarissa.” He grips me tighter.

“Hmm, I love you too.”

He kisses my neck before he pulls away and stares down at me.

“Come on.” He drags me into the restaurant, and the warm air is like a robe against my skin.

“Oh my gosh, it’s so cold outside. It feels good in here,” I whine, bundling my jacket tighter. Tyree looks back with a smile and guides us forward.

A well-dressed man in all black is orchestrating a line of his staff, and I take note of the directions he effortlessly doles out as waiters with full trays add to a feast laid out on a middle table.

“Mr. and Mrs. Williams, we’ve been expecting you. My name is Rick, and I’ll be going over each dish and answering any questions you have,” he says with his hand outstretched.

“Nice to meet you,” Tyree says, and I try not to dwell on the introduction. It’s just I’ve always found the lumped naming convention of spouses annoying. As though my identity is no longer my own and I’ve morphed into his image. Those thoughts aside, I do love Tyree, and we’re on the same page about what our union means to us, so I won’t go into a debate about the patriarchy and how it rears its ugly little head in almost all aspects of society.

I grit my teeth and smile, shaking his hand before we have a seat. The dining area is nice, with those thick white tablecloths draped over all the tables and a dark wood accent that gives the perfect date night ambiance.

“Before we get started, thank you for selecting Love’s Table as a contender to cater your wedding. We are more than confident you’ll love, pun intended, what our chef pulled together.”

I nod, and we get comfortable in our seats. I’ve heard some variation of this speech a lot over the last few weeks, but I’ll let the food be the decider.

“First, let’s start with mini duck bites with an orange glaze.”

I smile, but I don’t feel it. It’s not that I hate oranges; I just strongly despise the citrus flavor. It looks fantastic against deep mahogany melanated skin, but food-related, not so much.

“Here, try this, Clarissa. I just know you’ll love it.” Tyree turns to me with that smile so deep I melt into my seat.

“It looks great, but I’m not an orange fan.” I grimace, scrunching my nose and lifting my shoulders.

“Shit, I knew that. Man, it’s so good. Why don’t you like oranges again? Who doesn’t like oranges?”

I shrug. There’s not much to say about it. When I was six, I nearly overdosed on oranges, and I haven’t had them since. Overdose is a strong word. It was more like I ate six oranges back-to-back, broke out in hives, and developed a tummy ache that still gives me chills at the memory.

“Sorry,” I say. He loves oranges and has never quite gotten over my disdain for the citrus fruit.

“Why are you apologizing? I’m sorry I ordered this to be sampled.”

He leans over and kisses my cheek. In the midst of that, the waiter brings a replacement dish, and the duck bites are taken away in a flurry. Tyree whispers another round of apologies in my ear.

The manager pulls our attention and begins introducing the next dish. “Sorry again about that. This next dish is a porkchop salad with apple compote.”

The sauce glistens under the low light, and a salty, savory scent wafts under my nose. It’s perfectly placed over a bed of romaine and mixed greens.

This looks delicious.

We each take a small plate, and I encompass a bit of each flavor on my fork before I take a bite. It’s…chewy, like it’s overcooked and missing a vital step. That missing step is mostly flavor.

Tyree and I make eye contact, and we’re on the same page. We have a way of transmitting our feelings with one glance, which I use a lot when we’re obligated to be at a party but my social battery is running low. More disappointing than the flavor is the waste of an outing to find the perfect menu after a long day of work.

I know the food is bad because even though this was supposed to serve as dinner, I’m not sure I can muster up another fake smile to swallow a lump of flavorless yet beautiful food.

How something could look so appealing, smell so wonderful, and be so disgusting is beyond me. It goes on like this for dish after dish. The lamb chop was the worst.

Tyree pulls me in close to whisper in my ear. “I’m so sorry. Darin said this place was amazing. I can’t believe it’s so bad.”

I giggle lowly and pull him closer. “I’m so hungry, but I can’t eat this,” I whisper.

He leans back and winks at me before he turns to Rick, who is all geared up to explain the next dish.

“Rick, sorry, but we need to cut this short. I need to feed my baby, and it’s already been a long day.”

Rick sputters and looks behind himself, waving franticly to stop the next line of waiters. “But we still have a few more entrées to sample.”

Tyree stands and buttons his jacket. “I wish we could, and I do appreciate all your work, but I think we have other plans.”

I smooth down my dress and take Tyree’s hand as he guides us from the restaurant.

“Chinese food?” he asks with one brow quirked high.

I’m one of those people who has never met a Chinese dish I didn’t love—except orange dishes, of course. I could eat Chinese for breakfast, lunch, or dinner. There’s never a period of time I don’t want Chinese food.

“That would be amazing.”

“Anything for my baby. Come on, I know your feet hurt in those heels.”

Tyree leads us down the sidewalk. Now that the sun has tucked itself in, the breeze is colder floating around us, and I nuzzle myself closer to his side.

“By the way, I’m still waiting to hear back from Tyson. He’s been out of pocket, but I can’t wait ‘til y’all finally meet.”

“Which one is he again?”

“My best man and college roommate. I still can’t believe we haven’t gotten together, but he’s been hopping between Europe and Spain since we graduated. He hasn’t even been home for the holidays in the past three years.”

A flash of old pictures pops into my mind, and I’m reminded. We’ve never met in person, but I’ve heard his voice in passing over the phone.

“That reminds me, I need to call Marissa to see if we’re still on for gift assembly,” I say.

Tyree groans, and my laughter fills the air. I’m sure Marissa will be down for whatever I need.

Isn’t that what best friends are for?