Nothing ruins pasta faster than silence.
Silver twirled her fork through linguine that had grown cold while she tried to disappear into her chair, watching noodles slip back into the ceramic bowl with the persistence of her own anxiety. The restaurant Americus had chosen was exactly the kind of place that should have been perfect for a relaxed evening among friends—small and intimate, with exposed brick walls strung with warm fairy lights that cast everything in a golden glow that belonged more in a romantic comedy than her current nightmare.
Rustic wooden tables were scattered throughout the narrow space, each one topped with flickering tea candles and small potted herbs that filled the air with the scent of basil and rosemary. The kind of cozy New Haven spot where Yale students brought their parents during Family Weekend, where conversations should flow as smoothly as the wine that everyone was too young to legally order.
