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Man, she must think I’m a real prick. Talking to her the other day like she was a goddamn stranger.
I’ll apologize for it at some point, but right now, with Bruce playing witness, I don’t see much of an option other than diving headfirst into the fray.
“Hi,” I greet, and I don’t miss the way her throat bobs when she swallows. “I’m here to take you to lunch.”
“Y-you’re what?”
“I’m here to take you to lunch,” I repeat, taking a step toward her.
She takes a noticeable step back. “But I-I’m working…”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Bruce chimes in. “Go to lunch with him, Maybe. You and I both know we’re always slow on Saturdays.”
Her mouth opens and closes a few times, but words don’t come out. I don’t know if she’s mad about how cavalierly I treated her as a stranger or if she’s still embarrassed about the messages, or hell, maybe the two are directly related. But I’ll never know if I don’t get her out of this building.
“Come on.” I step toward her to take the bucket of flowers she’s visibly forgotten about from her hands. “It’ll be nice to catch up.”
She doesn’t say anything as I set the container on the counter, but her stunned silence is in no way a deterrent.
“We can catch up and talk about some publishing contacts I think you’d be interested in.”
“Look, I really appreciate your effort to help me out and everything, but—”
Bruce takes it upon himself to chime in again.
“Stop being so stubborn, Maybe,” he says. “Let the man help you get wet.”
My eyes go wide automatically, and Maybe freaks.
“Oh my God! Dad!”
“What?” Bruce questions with a shrug—like he didn’t just say something insanely inappropriate. “Everyone needs a little help getting their feet wet in a new career. These days, it pays to know people, if you know what I’m sayin’.”
Apparently, Evan’s dad is still in the business of putting his comically wrong spin on popular sayings, and since he’s not my dad, I don’t think it’ll ever get old.
When we were sixteen and headed to prom, right in front of Evan’s date, he said, “Now, don’t go too hard on her, son. Treat her like the virgin she is, okay?”
Mind you, he was talking about his car, not Evan’s sixteen-year-old date—who, ironically, was actually a virgin. I still laugh to this day when I think about it.
But I know it’s not ever as funny when it’s your parent. “You sure have a way with words, Bruce.”
“Betty and Maybe call them Bruce-isms.”
“Trust me,” Maybe interjects. “That’s not a compliment.”
I smile. Evan would say the exact same thing.
Bruce, however, is completely unfazed. “Meh.” He is quite literally the definition of zero fucks given.
“So, to lunch?” I slide my hands into the pockets of my jeans and meet Maybe’s now-narrowed eyes.
“Apparently, I don’t have a choice…”
“Nope. Not really.” I smirk, shake my head, and shrug good-naturedly. “But I’ll let you choose where we eat.”
“Wow,” she mutters and grabs her purse from behind the counter. “So generous.”
She doesn’t slow as she heads for the door, so I quickly tell Bruce to send whatever he thinks is best to my mom and Emory, ask that he give my hello to Betty, and follow after Maybe dutifully.
It takes almost a block to catch up with her—the speedwalk she’s employed completely unrelated to getting away from me, I’m sure—and we walk the final three silently, shoulder-to-shoulder.
I smile to myself when we stop in front of Ruth’s, her choice that just so happens to be one of my favorite lunch spots in the city. I wrap my knuckles around the handle of the shiny chrome-embellished door and hold it open for Maybe to step inside first. A young hostess with a blond ponytail and pink-painted lips greets her, asking how many people will be dining today, and that’s when the silent treatment she’s giving me becomes acutely noticeable. Sure, we’ve been keeping to ourselves, but not even answering the hostess? A line has been drawn.
Before, I figured it was smart not to push or pry and just give her some space. No need to poke the already annoyed bear cub before at least feeding her lunch first. But that’s changed now. Now, I intend to push. Hard. For as long as it takes to get a reaction.
“A table for two,” I step up to say with an almost obnoxious level of assertion.
Maybe may think she can avoid this encounter, but she’s wrong. I’ve got years of experience in the snake pit that is the business world on my side.
Without delay, the young girl makes quick work of grabbing menus from her stand and taking us to a table.
Maybe sits down in the seat across from mine, fidgets with the napkin-wrapped cutlery, and then opens her menu on a sigh.
She stares at the lists of dishes and kitschy pictures like they hold the key to promptly removing herself from this situation.
