A new server appeared, a young woman with a bouncy ponytail. Shift change, apparently. “Ready for the dessert menu? Coffee? Another—”
“We’re ready for the check,” Suzanne and Steve said in unison.
At least they had one thing in common.
He gave her an irritated smirk. “You’re hard core. Nothing like most women I date.”
“What are most women you date like?”
He began to take a breath, halting midway, the puff of air artificially cut off. The sound was like someone being scared on a very cold morning.
“Not like you.”
“How tautological.”
“You don’t need to pull out grad school words to prove your intelligence. I know what that means.”
“I wouldn’t have used the word if I’d thought you didn’t know the meaning.” She touched his hand, smiling.
He flinched. From the look on his face, he clearly didn’t know whether to be flattered or offended.
“Here’s the check!” Chirpy the Server announced, bouncing on the balls of her feet.
Steve picked it up, eyed Suzanne, then sat there.
Saving him the trouble, she pulled three twenties out of her purse and set them in the check folder. Her half. He matched it, remaining silent.
Without another word, they walked out of the restaurant. Expecting to separate at the covered entrance to the restaurant, Suzanne was surprised when Steve followed her up the stairs and onto the sidewalk, side by side.
“So,” he said, moving closer, coming in for a kiss.
Oh, no.
No no no.
Aside from the fact that there was no way that man’s tongue was getting anywhere near her, if she kissed him right now all the lipstick she wore would make him slide off onto the curb.
“Where’s your car?” he asked, smiling at her in a way that made her love her dog even more.
“I took the T.”
He shuddered. “How can you stand it?”
“You drive into the city every day?”
“No. I live in Back Bay now,” he crowed.
“And you have a car?” That was overkill.
“Of course! A Beemer.”
Of course.
She began a slow walk back toward the arts center, the ground dark with a light rain that must have fallen during their short dinner. A handful of dive bars speckled the way, mixed in with a fancy coffee shop, a bead store, a head shop, a co-working center and an ancient dry cleaner.
“Suzanne, I feel like we got off on the wrong foot,” Steve announced, his voice contritely pompous. How the hell did he manage that contradiction?
“Yes?”
He reached for her elbow. She took her finger and spelled out the word ‘asshole’ in cursive on his chest.
He let go.
“I believe I gave you the wrong impression with this date.”
She kept walking, but watched him, giving him her full attention as one does with toddlers and men wearing Jason masks.
“Yes?” she urged him. Long past the point of being romantic, the date had turned comical. At least she’d have a good story, as Kari often said after spectacularly bad dates.
“I didn’t seek you out because of your partner status at your firm.”
“You didn’t?”
“Not initially. Your picture was gorgeous and your personal statement caught my eye.”
She laughed.
“My best friend wrote that.”
He perked up. “Is she single?”
Sliding to a halt, she was simultaneously grateful and furious when his hands reached out to steady her, her fingers gripping his forearm as one of his hands slid around her waist. Righting herself quickly, she spiraled out of his grasp.
“Can we get a selfie before you go?” Steve asked, reaching into his jacket pocket. “I have my selfie stick and we can—”
She grabbed her phone and pulled up his Twitter stream.
She came out of the bathroom looking like a goddess.
Her hand’s on my crotch. Score!
Pic to follow to prove I bagged her.
Just then, the door to a bar a few feet away opened, spilling neon light and the raucous sounds of sports games and billiards into the city streets. A dark-haired man accompanied by a bald friend came into the light, then shadows, both of them tall, one bulkier and more muscular, big and rippled with—
No.
“Suzanne?”
Gerald.
“STEVE?”
Declan.
Her hands flew to her face. She looked like Pennywise the Clown married Tammy Faye Bakker.
“What a wonderful coincidence!” Steve called out, looking like a kid wandering the streets playing Pokemon Go who found a Dragonite. “Declan McCormick! How’s it going, my friend?”
And then Steve grabbed Declan in a manbrace, the bromance version of a hug.
Suzanne had seen Gerald in combat, bullets whizzing by, IEDs destroying jeeps, body parts flying and hardened soldiers screaming for their mamas. She’d watched him during ten days without a shower, seen him struggle on a half hour of sleep a night for five days straight, and witnessed countless acts of stress-filled bravery.
Not once had she ever seen a look of utter shock on his face like this.
As she watched him, Gerald’s shoulders expanded, chest growing, arms flexing in a primal move that made it clear he was preparing to defend Declan in some physical way.
“What the hell?” Declan said, shoving Steve away. “What are you doing? I hate you!”
Declan McCormick was her new favorite client.
“Suzanne! Surely you know my friend Declan McCormick? Of Anterdec? We go back a long way. He’s such a joker!” Steve’s shit-eating grin made it clear this was spectacle. More status-by-association. Performance. Nothing but show. Steve was using Declan as some kind of status symbol, as if being seen with him bolstered Steve in her eyes.