Jeremiah took a deep breath, trying to regain his composure. His hand reached for his cigarette box, but his fingers hesitated when he remembered Monica was in the car. It was a small gesture, but it spoke volumes. My heart was filled with a bitter self-mockery—he used to smoke without a second thought when he was with me, but now he seemed so self-conscious.
It wasn’t that he lacked restraint; he just didn’t care about me. Glancing at me through the rearview mirror, Jeremiah said, "We’ve had some misunderstandings lately. I’ve booked a table at your favorite restaurant. Let’s talk things over."
"Well, that works out because I have something I need to talk to you about, too," I said.
The car soon stopped at Monica’s apartment and Jeremiah parked it smoothly. He hurriedly unbuckled his seat belt, seeming eager to open the door for Monica—a courtesy I’d never received. He rushed to her side, helping her out of the car with an overly tender touch, as if every movement had been rehearsed. Monica’s face displayed a dramatic mix of discomfort and relief, clearly enjoying the attention.