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Surely, he should just accept I don’t want to drink and move on. I’m no dating genius, but I don’t see how it’s necessary to keep pressing and pressing this issue. He stares expectantly. He wants an answer.
“Casual sex,” I tell him, hoping that makes it clear we won’t be having any first-date escapades. “Hangovers. Waking up late.”
“Do you mind if I get a drink?” he says, gesturing to the waitress. “You can have a juice box or something.”
I wonder if he thinks he’s better than me just because, if we were to take a survey, most people would agree he’s more physically attractive. He’s not attractive tome, and even if he were, that wouldn’t give him the right to be so casually dismissive.
“A glass of red for me,” he says, “and my date will have…” He gestures at me.
I almost stand up and leave the restaurant. There’s something so offensive in the handwave, though I’m fairly sensitive. I don’t want to overreact. Maybe I’m overthinking this. I have totry, at least.
“An orange juice, please,” I say. When the waitress leaves, I ask, “Busy evening?”
“Not really,” he replies.
“Oh,” I say. “I just thought… You know, we arranged to meet at eight.”
“What time is it now?” he says almost aggressively.
“Eight twenty,” I tell him.
“Twenty minutes? Pfft.” He waves his hand again, and thatreallypisses me off. It’s like the idea I’d be concerned about lateness is a joke to him. He’s giving me a preview of what sort of long-term partner he’d make if I ever made that mistake. Not-so-subtle indicators that he’d chip, chip, and chip away at my self-respect until he could treat me however he wanted.
“It felt longer than that in the rain.”
“So what did Lexi tell you about me?” he steamrolls my comment before I even finish talking.
Give him a chance, Lexi said when arranging this date.I know you can be very particular.
Particular is code for me liking routine and order. For example, I enjoy not being hungover because I like to paint during dawn. On the East Coast, with the subtle gradations of the lighting, it makes for an interesting challenge.
I decide to make an effort to force a smile. “You used to train at the same martial arts gym. Kickboxing, right?”
“Well… yes…” He grips the table, leans back, and aims a shit-eating grin at me.
“What?” I ask.
“Just… Well, I trained. She did her best. You can’t blame her. She’s five and a half feet without an ounce of muscle. However, it’s good for fitness, even if she couldn’t use it in a real fight.”
“I watched her spar a few days ago,” I tell him. “She seemed to know what she was doing.”
“Was it against a man or another woman?” he asks, seeming angry for some reason.
“A man,” I tell him. “There’s a martial arts gym just around the corner from the college campus. He was around her size. They both landed strikes on each other.”
“He was probably going easy,” he says dismissively.
I lean forward, shaking my head. “It didn’tseemlike he was going easy. His entire face and neck were red, and he was so tired. It was for five minutes, and toward the end, he could hardly breathe. Lexi was still light and agile on her feet.”
“Ah, conditioning,” he says, nodding. “Fitness means a lot in the fight. If he hadn’t been tired… Look, here are our drinks. They’ve even given you a cute little straw.”
I almost stand up. Maybe I should. If somebody was listening to this date, I wonder if they’d be yelling at me to get out of here, to stop letting him disrespect me. Social situations are so difficult to navigate sometimes. Walking through the steps in my mind—making an excuse, standing up, walking from the restaurant, finding my car—all feels so confusingly overwhelming.
“So,” he says, grabbing the menu. “What are you in the mood for?”
CHAPTERTWO
Fletcher
