Page 21 of Play Dirty

That’s my benchmark for friendship. Can I call this person to bail me out?

I bailed him out before. But that’s not why I think he’d be there for me. I just feel like we’ve turned a corner. He sees new me, not old me. Maybe he hasn’t forgiven me. I did kinda fuck up his life. But he’s at peace with it.

Maybe that’s the most you can expect from your mistakes?

My phone rings. Alexander. I tab accept and say, “Yes.”

“So you’re done, I take it?”

“Yeah. I’m out. You two need to figure your shit out on your own. I can’t be your glue.”

“Cool,” he says. “Fine. But…” He pauses. For too long.

“But what?”

“So you wanna go to dinner tonight?”

“Dude—”

“Just me, man. Not her.”

I do meet up with him. Partly because I’m curious what he’s up to. Like, is he wearing me down? Trying to make me change my mind? Is he using me to piss Augustine off? What is his fucking deal?

We meet at the restaurant, which is a small, intimate Italian place suitable for new couples. He gets there first, waiting for me outside in a slow, misty drizzle under a softly glowing yellow streetlamp.

He greets me with a smile, an outstretched hand—which I take, and shake—as he pulls me into a hug that comes with a firm clap on the back.

“I know you’re avoiding me, so I appreciate the fact that you’re here.”

“Look, I’m not your fix, OK?”

“Consider that subject closed then.”

“Closed?”

“Done.”

“You’re not here to talk me into it? Or tell me why I’m so important?”

“Let’s go inside,” he says, waving me towards the door.

And then he reaches ahead of me to pull the door open, like I’m his fucking date.

Inside all the arrangements were made by him, so he takes charge. And it’s fucking weird because I feel like a woman.

How the fuck did I get here? I swear to God, none of this is my fault. I did nothing to ask for this bullshit. I’ve just been doing my thing these past several years. Moving on, and up, and a little bit out. I put things behind me for a reason and I have no interest in bringing them all front and center again.

We get to the table, which is an intimate two-seater with a fucking candle between us.

The waiter is smiling, happy to present us with the chef’s specials, and then leaves us to get our drinks. Which Alexander orders for both of us.

“What the fuck are you doing?” I ask, once the waiter is gone.

“Showing you a nice time,” he says, placing his napkin on his lap. “Just relax, Jordan. Enjoy yourself for once.”

“I can’t enjoy myself if I have to spend every waking minute wondering what your game is.”

He smiles. Chuckles. “Ironic, isn’t it? You, the game master, think I’m the one playing. I’m here for you, I thought I made that clear the other day.”