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I raise an eyebrow as I look pointedly at his generous stack of salami and prosciutto.
Whitney rolls her eyes visibly. “It’s not made with actual grasshoppers, Trent. It’s mint mousse and oreo. It’s just called grasshopper pie because of the color.”
“Oh, phew.” Trent releases a relieved breath that as his expression relaxes. Without another word, he sets his plate down in front of himself and digs into the meat he just claimed he wouldn’t be eating this month.
Is this guy for real?
“So, did you see that sky today? Talk about blue,” he says as the awkward silence stretches between us.
“That’s generally the color of the sky, isn’t it?” Whitney points out, her sarcasm thick.
My lips press together as I fight to keep from laughing. She sounds almost like a big sister talking to an annoying little brother.
“So, Trent, you’re at Rosehill to become a… sorry, I don’t actually know the word. Are you a ballerina as well?” I ask.
“They just call us ballet dancers, and yeah.” He shrugs a shoulder before taking a sip of sangria and humming appreciatively.
“What made you want to be a ballet dancer?”
“Oh, you know, the ladies love it.”
His California-dude voice makes me unsure of whether he meant it as a joke or not, and I stare him down, studying his face as Trent returns his focus to his plate, seemingly oblivious to the fact that he’s here to set my mind at ease about him partnering with Whitney. He seems to already have forgotten my initial anger that had him scampering for the door.
“Trent, don’t say shit like that. You sound ridiculous,” Whitney snaps as she approaches the dining table once more, a casserole dish clasped between her black-checked oven gloves.
“I know. I know. It’s not kosher in today’s society to be talking about getting ladies, what with all you feminists running about,” he says holding his hands up in submission.
“You feminists?” Whitney quips. Her nostrils flare.
“No, I didn’t meanyoufeminists. I meant–you know…” Trent flounders.
God, I love watching him squirm.And I swear I catch another eye roll from Whitney before she disappears into the kitchen once more. But when she comes back a moment later with the salad, her face is fixed in a perfectly polite expression. Maybe I’m just imagining what I want to see.
“This smells incredible,” Trent says appreciatively, and Whitney smiles.
My hackles rise immediately, and I scoop ziti onto my plate with more force than necessary. The stinted conversation as we eat lunch is forced and awkward. Trent tries to keep up, but his contributions are almost comically thick, and I have to work to keep my irritation in check. And at once, I’m conflicted about whether to be grateful that he can’t seem to string two intelligent statements together at a time or furious that he still managed to weasel his way into Whitney’s life. I shouldn’t feel threatened by him, but still, questions linger in the back of my mind. And I wonder if she might find him attractive enough to look past his talent for putting his foot in his mouth.
It galls me that he could claim to be going vegetarian to watch his calories and then pack in a considerable amount of cured meats along with the high-carb pasta, followed by a good serving of dessert. He doesn’t even seem to notice the conflict of his actions to words, or maybe he doesn’t care. But as he finally pushes his empty plate of grasshopper pie away, I’m dying to kick this idiot out of Whitney’s apartment.
I’ve met the guy. I can barely tolerate him, and I wonder if that might not be what Whitney meant when she said I just needed to talk to him to know he wouldn’t be a threat. But to me, I find the opposite to be true. He’s clearly open to getting laid–by any girl who might be into a ballet dancer like him. And despite her insistence that he’s not her type, I’m not sure I can believe that Whitney would find him unattractive.
“Hey, man. It was great meeting you. We should do this again sometime,” Trent says as the lunch finally wraps up and I start to drop heavy hints that it’s time for him to get out.
“I don’t think so,” I say coldly.
Trent laughs, not catching the icy sincerity. He smiles at Whitney. “Thanks for the meal. It was great. I’ll see you on Monday?”
“Please, practice your part this weekend,” she says in place of confirmation.
Anxiety tinges her tone, and I wonder if that’s because she’s stressed about her class or worried about being alone with me soon. I didn’t think I was that bad during lunch, but I do plan on getting a confession out of her. She’s either lying about being attracted to him because she thinks that’s what I want to hear, or she’s lying because she doesn’t want me to be suspicious. But she’s not being honest about it. Of that I’m sure.
I open the door for Trent as he drags his feet on the way out, and when he turns to say a final goodbye, I slam the door in his face. Intense satisfaction fills my chest at his look of astonishment at the door’s sudden appearance. And glorious peaceful silence fills the apartment as soon as he’s gone. Turning to face Whitney, I’m surprised to find her studying me, an unamused expression on her face.
“Does that turn you on?” I growl, my tone dropping low as unbidden jealousy roars to life in my chest. “Flaunting your partner in front of me and seeing how riled up he can get me? Did you want me to punch him? Is that it?”
20
WHITNEY
