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“You’ve made that pretty clear.”
“No charge. No obligations. You can stay as long as you’d like. But I don’t want you sleeping in that van anymore.”
Her brows pinch together in worry as she swallows her food and grabs a glass of water to wash it down. For a long time, she stares forward, as if the lunch on her plate holds the answers. “We don’t even know each other.”
With that, I lean back in my chair and level my gaze on her. “Okay, Daisy. What do you want to know?”
For the next few minutes, we volley innocent questions back and forth. She tells me she’s from a small town in Indiana and moved out here in January to start an adventure of her own. She asks about my company, and I explain in far too few words that I own a conglomerate holding company, but that clearly loses her interest quickly, so I shoot back with a trivial question of my own—or at least one that I thought was trivial.
“What’s your favorite book?”
The question catches Daisy off guard. Her head turns up and she stares at me with a furrowed brow and a slightly turned-down mouth.
“Just one?”
“Yes.”
The expression of contemptuous disapproval doesn’t leave her face.
“You can’t possibly expect me to answer that,” she replies with a bite in her tone.
I lean forward, setting my glass down on the table. “Why not?”
“Because it’s not a fair question. What’syourfavorite book?”
“A Moveable Feastby Ernest Hemingway,” I reply without hesitation.
She looks affronted. “Really?”
“Yes…” Now I’m confused.
“No matter what mood you’re in?”
“Yes…”
“Out of all the books in the world,” she asks, eyes bulging.
“Well, I haven’t read all the books in the world, but out of the ones I have read…yes, that is my favorite.” My eyes squint, staring at her with scrutiny.
“Well, I think asking someone to pick just one is a little rude. I could tell you my childhood favorite. Or my comfort book. Or my favorite contemporary or my favorite classic. My favorite poetry book or my favorite fiction.”
A smile creeps across my face as she continues, verbally reprimanding me for asking such an unfair question before detailing each of her favorites with delicate precision.Anne of Green Gables,andJane Eyre,andThe Handmaid’s Tale,andThe Great Gatsby.
I can’t take my eyes off her. Suddenly, she’s melting into the dining room chair, her legs pulled to her chest, as she goes on and on and on.
I soak up every single word.
RULE #7: DON’T BE AFRAID OF WHAT’S BEHIND THE CURTAIN
Daisy
The club is quiet for a Friday. Which is ironic because it’s spring and I always assumed people were hornier and got it on more in the springtime. Or maybe I’m just remembering that scene inBambi, where all the boy animals got horny for the girl animals in spring.
And…I just comparedBambito a sex club.
That’s just how bored I am.
Geo is busy chatting it up with Drake on the other side of the bar, and I’m watching the clientele like a hawk, waiting for someone who looks like they need a fresh drink. But they’re all sipping so slow tonight.
