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“What are you doing?”
There are a handful of members out in the parking lot, and every one of them is watching me trail after James as he steals my bike. They do nothing.
I finally catch up with him enough to try to yank it out of his hold.
“Give me my bike, James.”
But it’s too late. We’re back at his parking spot. He pops the trunk of his Tesla and pauses for a moment, assessing something. Then he leans down and detaches the front wheel with a few flicks of his wrist. Without it in place, the bike slides easily into the trunk space. He tosses the wheel in after it and slams the door closed.
I cross my arms. “Great. You’ve stolen a bike from a woman. What’s next? Gonna go steal those little tennis balls off some granny’s walker? Or what about a rattle from a baby?”
He chuckles, shakes his head, and heads for the passenger side door. “Get in the car, Brooke.”
I can feel people watching us, completely enthralled no doubt. Soon Brian is going to wander out and join the crowd. I don’t want to get in trouble for causing a scene in the parking lot, although truthfully, that’s exactly what I had originally planned to do. I just didn’t expect James to do it for me.
He opens my door, rounds the front of the car, and gets in behind the wheel. He doesn’t have to ask me to get in again; the empty seat taunts me enough as it is. I glance back to the clubhouse and seriously contemplate booking an Uber to get home. He changes radio stations, puts the car in reverse, and before I can truly acknowledge my actions, I get in.
Neither of us speaks for the first few minutes. I sit like a statue, my arms crossed in front of my chest, my gaze laser-focused out the front window. James, by contrast, has apparently reached the highest level of nirvana. He couldn’t be more relaxed. He turns up the music and drums his thumb on the steering wheel. I bet if I glanced over, I’d even find a hint of a smile.
He drives us down the winding drive and away from the country club. I could ask him where we’re going, but alas, I’d be breaking the silence first, and I will not lose this battle. Besides, I get my answer soon enough when he pulls up in front of 24 Diner at 6th and Lamar. I’ve driven by the restaurant a million times, but I’ve never stopped for a meal.
He didn’t even ask if I was hungry. He just assumed if he parked here and hopped out of the car, I would follow along after him—and what’s more frustrating is that I do. It’s getting annoying. I feel like a puppy or a victim with Stockholm syndrome.
“Table for two please,” he says to the hostess.
She leads us to a small booth in the back of the restaurant. James stakes a claim on one side, and I take the other. The waiter swoops down on us, and James speaks up for me. “We’ll take an order of the chicken and waffles.”
I peer at him over the top of my menu.
“I’m not hungry.”
I am, but if he’s going to be difficult, then so am I.
“That’s too bad.”
He takes my menu and hands it to the waiter along with his.
We’re left to ourselves. Silence descends again, and I can’t handle it. I’ve never been around someone so infuriating. Sure, first dates are awkward, but that awkwardness is usually felt by both parties. James seems totally oblivious. He’s staring off down the hallway past my head, content within his own thoughts.
So, I try to be too.
I think over what I need to buy at the grocery store tomorrow. Chicken. Maybe some of that fancy gelato I stroll past every week and try very hard to avoid. I remind myself to text Ellie about our SoulCycle class Monday—she has a tendency to forget about them unless I hound her. All in all, I think I do a good job of ignoring him completely.
Our food arrives and my mouth waters. I’ve had chicken and waffles a few times in my life, but it’s never looked like this. In the center of a large plate sits a perfect, golden waffle. On top of that, they’ve arranged four pieces of crispy fried chicken. The smell hits me before my other senses can even catch up. I want to fall forward and face-plant into it. That’s how delicious this food smells.
James puts a quarter of the waffle and some chicken onto a spare plate and pushes it toward me.
“I know you aren’t hungry,” he says, “but if you’re going to try a bite, I’d add a little bit of the brown sugar butter.”
