Betrayal

"I don't think I'm ready to be a Father." His voice was steady, practiced, and controlled, though his eyes filled with tears.

I let go of his hand, which he'd taken from across the candlelit table a moment before. I thought he was going to propose. I didn't see this coming.

I sat back in my chair and grabbed my glass of wine, taking a big, un lady-like gulp.

He watched me from across the table, waiting. I looked at my watch. It was eight forty-five. The babysitter needed to be home by nine.

We'd been dating for five years, since our sophomore year in high school, but at this moment, it felt like an eternity. I got pregnant not long after graduation. We'd been juggling work, college, and family. We didn't want to get married just because we had a kid. I had just graduated with a bachelor's in psychology, starting a new job on Monday. I swirled the wine, watching its crimson waves roll against the glass.

"I'm sorry, I thought I could do this. I've given it my best shot," he said regretfully, shaking his head.

I sat up and leaned forward, slowly setting the glass down and cupping my hands together. I looked up into his face with what I was sure was an expression he'd never seen before. He fidgeted nervously in his chair, sitting back a little ways from me.

"You've been a Father for two years. Parenthood isn't like trying a new sport or switching careers," I said, watching his expressions carefully. The anger built up with each word I spoke. The phrase righteous indignation came to mind. "What do you mean you don't think you're ready?"

I noticed the brunette woman sitting alone at the table behind my boyfriend, turning slightly and tilting her head, sliding a casual finger through her hair back behind her ear.

"Are you Enjoying the show?" I thought, resisting the urge to say it out loud. Then it struck me. I looked at him and her and fought back the impulse to cry with every fiber of my being. I swallowed the lump forming in my throat, picked up my glass, and took another drink.

I couldn't win in this situation. If I freaked out and made a scene, I'd be the irrational, crazy, scorned woman. An onlooker might start filming with their camera phone. I could garner tens of thousands of likes for someone on their social media account. If I started crying, it might earn some sideline sympathizers, and I knew I couldn't, wouldn't give them the satisfaction. I looked at my watch again; it was eight forty-six.

The waiter offered to fill my glass. I let her. She didn't give any to him. I tapped my finger discreetly on the table, indicating that she should leave the bottle, which she did. He hadn't noticed. He was too busy performing his monologue.

I looked at him for what would be the last time. The tears had gone from his eyes, replaced by a look of genuine puzzlement. I clearly wasn't responding the way he thought I would. He must have practiced my possible reactions and his rebuttals. This affirmation gave me a sadistic sense of pleasure. I liked watching him squirm.

I heard him say something about five years, the best years of his life, time for a change, and he'll understand when he's older.

I glanced at the brunette, at him, and at my wine. He wasn't worth wasting good wine on; if it was Sauvignon blanc, well, then I couldn't help myself. Sauvignon means savage, and the irony would be too good to pass up, but this was Pinot noir.

I stood up, grabbed the bottle, and quietly left.