My Fiancé Hated Pasta for 8 Years—Then Learned to Make It for His Assistant

When I came home from a business trip, I found my fiancé learning to make fresh pasta. For one ridiculous, hopeful moment, I thought Grant had finally decided to surprise me. Then I heard his friend laughing in the kitchen. "Eight years, Grant. Claire gave up her favorite food because you insist on eating rice with everything. Now you've spent six months eating pasta with your new assistant, and you're actually learning to make it for her?" Grant chuckled. "Sophie is different. She can't stand rice. What am I supposed to do—make her miserable?" "And Claire? She did everything for you. You never made an exception for her." "Claire never complains," Grant replied. "She'll be fine." I stood motionless outside the kitchen. I'd spent eight years believing that Grant hated pasta. Apparently, he'd simply hated making an exception for me. And he was right about one thing. I wasn't going to cause trouble. I was going to leave. By the time he came home that night, I was eating a bowl of pasta alone. I'd also canceled my ticket for the wedding trip we were supposed to take in seven days. Six months ago, before Sophie joined his company, Grant had promised me a beautiful wedding with all our family and friends. Last month he'd abruptly changed his mind. An intimate destination ceremony, he'd said. Just the two of us, somewhere tropical. He'd even joked that maybe we'd come back as a family of three. Today I learned the real reason: Sophie would be upset if she had to watch us get married. "Pasta?" Grant asked, barely glancing up from his messages. "Didn't you make dinner?" For eight years I'd cooked what he liked and waited for him to come home. When we met, an illness had left him painfully underweight—about 115 pounds on a six-foot frame. I learned to cook everything he could stomach, until he finally reached a healthy 160. His family called me a miracle. He used to say I was the best thing that had ever happened to him. "I saved you some pasta," I said. His nose wrinkled. "You know I don't eat that. I'll order something." "It's my birthday. I've eaten rice with you for eight years. Could you eat pasta with me once?" His thumb stopped over his phone. It had taken my saying it out loud for him to remember. For seven birthdays, he'd planned gifts and cleared his schedule. This year, he hadn't even remembered the date. "Come on. I'll take you somewhere nice." "I don't want a restaurant. Just eat one bowl with me." "Claire, I hate pasta. The smell makes me sick. Why are you pushing me? You've never acted like this before!" There wasn't actually another serving in the kitchen. I'd only wanted to know whether, for once, he would choose me. Now I knew.