I should have trusted the tiny knot in my stomach when she sent me the restaurant’s name.
It was one of those steakhouses where the menu doesn’t list prices online. The kind with velvet booths, dim lighting, and waiters who glide instead of walk.
“Come on,” Vanessa had said over the phone. “You deserve a night out.”
“I’m happy to go,” I told her carefully.
“But I can’t spend $400 on dinner. I’m serious. I’ll go light.”
She laughed.
“Don’t be dramatic. It’ll be fine.”
It wasn’t fine.
The hostess led us past glass cases of dry-aged beef and walls lined with wine bottles that probably cost more than my rent. I felt underdressed in my simple black dress while Vanessa looked perfectly at home in heels and a designer bag she made sure to set on the table where everyone could see the logo.
The waiter arrived with menus that felt heavier than textbooks.
Vanessa didn’t hesitate.
“I’ll have the 32-ounce tomahawk, medium rare,” she said confidently.
“And truffle mac and cheese, lobster mashed potatoes, grilled asparagus. Oh—and a glass of your best cabernet.”
She closed the menu with a satisfied smile.
The waiter turned to me.
“I’ll just have the house salad,” I said. “No add-ons.
Water’s fine.”
Vanessa tilted her head. “That’s it? Live a little.”
I forced a small laugh.
“I’m good.”
The truth was, I had calculated everything before walking in. My rent had just increased. My car needed new brakes.
I was building my emergency savings back up after months of scraping by. One expensive dinner might seem trivial to her—but to me, it meant stress.
The food arrived like a performance.
Her steak was enormous, bone extending off the plate like a prop. Butter glistened on top.
Steam curled upward. The sides came in separate dishes, rich and decadent.
My salad looked like it had wandered onto the wrong table.
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