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“No.”
Her release of air creates a wind-rush sound on the phone. “Okay.”
Two feelings war within me. First, who the hell is she to ask me if I’m going on a date? Second, what are we doing here? Am I getting involved with her? There’s a reason I don’t do relationships. I told herthis. I was very clear, and I can’t afford to go back on that, not even for her.
“Gotta go,” I say.
“Sure. And hey—I’m sure you’ll find a new receptionist. There’s got to be someone out there who can handle Drew Daniels, even at his worst.”
It’s not looking good. But I say, “Thanks,” and end the call.
Chapter 15
ENSLEY
I think I screwed up.
I pace my apartment after getting off the phone with Drew. Ihadto bring up dates, didn’t I? Ugh! I couldn’t stop myself from asking if he was going to have another hookup. Ihadto know if he was getting naked with somebody.
Stupid!
On Friday, my grumpiness is an excellent impression of Drew. I keep my head down. I don’t talk to anybody. I don’t even move the masking tape on Janet’s refrigerator zone.
I listen to my customers’ crazy farm stories with scarcely a nod.
And that night, Drew doesn’t call.
I don’t call him, either.
Then it’s Saturday.
I’m so disgusted. I had to act all jealous. I have no claim on Drew in any way. He told me his parameters on dating. I’m just being stubborn, thinking that somehow I can save him from himself.
Still, as Saturday passes, I wonder what he’s doing. Did he go out after all? He said no, but then I may have made him mad enough he had to sock it to me by doing his thing with some Tinder bait.
By evening, I can’t take it anymore, so I head up to the bar where Tillie works. It’s crazy there, but I find a stool where the bar meets thewall, and I can hang out mostly unobserved until I decide if I want to retaliate for Drew’s imaginary date with a hookup of my own.
“What’s got you all riled up?” Tillie asks as she shakes a margarita.
“I screwed up with Drew.”
“You’re still worrying about when you asked him if he was going out with someone this weekend?” She knows the whole story.
“He hasn’t called or emailed or texted since then.”
She fills margarita glasses and sets them on a tray. When she pulls out a bottle of blue curaçao, I know she’s making a drink for me. I love a good Blue Hawaiian.
Rum. Vodka. Simple syrup. Pineapple, lemon, and lime juices.
No one makes them like Tillie.
She sticks an orange on the rim and slides it over. “I need to catch up on orders. But I’ll be right back.”
I don’t see how. The bar is packed. But I sip my drink, sitting cross-legged on the tall chair, my back against the wall. It’s interesting to watch the patrons trying to connect.
People who appear to barely know each other sit at a proper distance, shouting over the noise. Other couples clutch each other on the dance floor. Some argue. A few try to ignore each other, turned away, watching the dancers go by. The entire spectrum is here.
I consider letting random guys hit on me so I feel better, but nobody’s noticed me all curled up in the dark corner.
