The menu was in some ridiculous, swirly cursive font — the kind that looked fancy but made me feel like an idiot. I stared at it like it was written in ancient Greek. None of the words made sense. Everything was in French or Italian or something, and the descriptions didn’t help. How was I supposed to know what "coq au vin" was? It could’ve been chicken or, like, a type of shoe for all I knew.

Mike and Jen were chatting, looking comfortable like they belonged here. Ben was still grinning like a moron, tapping his fork against his water glass to make it sing. Nobody else looked confused. Just me.

I wasn’t about to ask for help. That was pathetic. I didn’t want them to look at me with that soft, pitying expression — the one that said, It’s okay, Sab, we know you’re struggling.

So when the waiter came, all polished and professional, I just pointed at the first thing my eyes landed on. It looked long and complicated, which probably meant it was fancy.

"I’ll, uh... have this one," I muttered, trying to sound like I knew what I was doing.

The waiter nodded, didn’t even blink. I relaxed, thinking maybe I pulled it off.

Ben ordered a steak. Because of course he did. He always made everything look easy.

When the food finally came, everyone else got these gorgeous plates — steak, pasta, some kind of roasted chicken that smelled amazing.

And then there was mine.

It looked like something scraped off the bottom of a boat. Grayish-brown, slimy, and covered in this weird, jiggly sauce that wobbled when the plate moved.

I stared at it, horrified.

Ben did a double take and immediately burst out laughing. Loud enough that the table next to us looked over. "What the hell is that?" he snorted, half-choking on his drink.

The waiter walked by just in time to hear him and smiled politely. "Ah, the escargot. Excellent choice."

Snails.

I ordered snails.

Ben laughed and Mike gave Ben a warning look, and Jen touched my arm gently. "Sweetheart, do you want to order something else?" she asked softly.