Chapter 14 – pippa
PIPPA
The full moon hangs over the ice rink, both of them shining the same luminous white.
Twinkling white Christmas lights loop around like city stars.
It’s a beautiful night to be out on a date, with a whole world of romance and possibilities ahead of me.
I would twirl on my skates, if I was physically capable of doing so.
“Is Ryan Archer really your stepbrother?”
Just like that, the beautiful night turns ugly. Why the hell is my date asking about Ryan? It surprises me so much, my ice skates go out from under me and I land on my ass in the middle of the rink. Dull pain spreads through my tailbone.
“Are you okay?” Trevor asks, extending a hand out to me.
He looks like Aladdin standing on the magic carpet, reaching down to help Jasmine up.
He’s cute—really cute, with a bright smile and swooping dark hair.
Plus, his profile on Keepr had pictures of him with an adorable tabby cat. All good things.
So maybe I can forgive him for mentioning the devil’s name.
“Yeah, only my pride really hurts.” I let him pull me up. “I’m usually a better skater than this.”
“You were doing great before,” Trevor reassures me. “Guess talent runs in the family.”
What’s he doing bringing up my family again? Because I know he doesn’t mean my parents. He’s curious about Ryan, the infamous ladies’ man and poker champ.
Or maybe he’s trying to make conversation. Not every guy is an asshole.
I force a smile. “I wouldn’t say skating’s a talent or anything. I’ve never really been the athletic type. Back in school, I was one of the artsy kids. What about you?”
“I was more of a gamer,” Trevor says. “My parents thought I was going to waste my life playing The Witcher all night. They were always being like, ‘You love computers! Can’t you just get into coding?’ I was like, ‘You’re missing the point!’”
I nod. “Right. You didn’t want to be a coder, you wanted to be Geralt of Rivia.”
He shoots me a glance. “You played The Witcher?”
“More like, I had a crush on Henry Cavill.”
“Fair enough,” he says with a laugh. “Are you still an artist?”
“Not at all. I’m a writer at Belladonna. I mostly do essays and articles.”
“The last essay I wrote was in college. I think I got a C-plus.”
I smile. “Don’t worry. I won’t hold it against you.”
On the speakers, “Jinglebell Rock” ends and “Santa Baby” starts playing. Another couple skates by us, laughing and holding hands. I’ve always thought a Christmas ice skating date would be romantic. Now that I’ve got Trevor off Ryan, maybe it can be.
“So, do you still game?” I ask.
“Nah. I actually ended up getting more into poker instead. I even hit up the tournaments sometimes.”
Motherfucker. He’s about to bring up my stepbrother again, isn’t he?
“I almost qualified for that sprint tournament Ryan held last year, but I missed the cutoff,” Trevor rambles, completely missing my frozen expression. “I mean, it’s always competitive to get a seat, but I hear if you have a connection, he makes exceptions.”
“Uh-huh.”
I should have walked out of this date the minute he mentioned Ryan’s name. Trevor’s supposed to be wooing me, not weaseling his way into meeting Ryan.
“Maybe if it works out between us, you could put in a good word for me, right?”
The couple holding hands skates by us again, laughing even louder. I swear, they’re mocking me with how well their fucking date is going.
“I think I’d be an asset to the table,” Trevor continues, “I played four tournaments in Vegas this year, and I didn’t win, but—”
“I have to use the bathroom,” I blurt out.
Trevor blinks at me. “Oh. Okay, do you want me to…”
“Go ahead and keep skating.” With a wave, I skate over to the exit as quickly as my mediocre ice-skating skills allow.
I take a seat on the wooden bench outside the rink and lean over to unlace my skates.
My fingers tremble on the laces, but it’s not from the cold.
I’m furious at the injustice of the whole thing.
My date would seriously rather be flirting with Ryan than me.
It’s like I can’t escape him, no matter where I go.
After I yank the skates off, I go to the rental counter to swap them for my high-heeled boots. I thought I looked pretty cute in my black wool coat and boots, accessorized with a red scarf that matches my lipstick.
Not that it mattered. I could have been Angelina Jolie and Trevor still wouldn’t care, not with a meeting with Ryan on the line. It was a total waste of my time and my outfit. Keepr should really let me report guys who do that.
Once my boots are zipped up, I stride out into the chilly night. Eventually Trevor will figure out I’ve ditched him. Or maybe he’ll forget all about me. He might spend hours skating in circles, rehearsing some speech about how much he deserves to kiss Ryan’s scuffed sneakers.
I hug my arms around myself and walk home as quickly as I can.
I know I should have stayed on that date longer to get more material for my article.
I just couldn’t stand listening to him trying to impress a man who wasn’t even there.
When I trudge into the building lobby, I head right for our mailboxes.
There, I find the first good news of the day—the present I ordered for the White Elephant party is here.
The party starts in a couple of days, and since I ordered from a specialty site, I was worried the delivery wouldn’t arrive in time.
Ryan’s not home when I get up to the apartment. Good—hopefully, he’ll party all night, so I can get some much-needed alone time.
Walking to my bedroom, I strip off my cute date outfit and toss it in the hamper. Once I’m in my comfy pajamas, I pull my favorite big purple fuzzy blanket out of the closet. With the blanket wrapped around me, I pull up my laptop and start writing.
Going on a date is an act of hope. You hope this might be a guy you want to go on a second date with. You hope he’ll be attracted to you, and vice versa. You hope that the indefinable thing you can’t measure on an app—chemistry—will be there.
Unfortunately, your hope is usually smashed like a pinata.
There are so many ways for a man to disappoint you.
He can be boring, rude, selfish, or creepy.
He can drag you to a shitty dive bar that smells like feet and urine, or escort you to an expensive restaurant and conveniently “forget” his credit card.
He can pretend he’s allergic to deodorant or condoms or feelings.
He can act shitty to a waiter or give you insults disguised as compliments.
He can spend the whole night workshopping his terrible stand-up routine on you.
Those aren’t just random examples—they’ve all happened to me or my friends, sometime in the past decade.
After enough disappointing dates, you have to wonder what the point of it all is. And if you only have a month to go on twelve dates, the disappointments come faster and harder than usual. It reminds you why you hit pause on dating in the first place.
Why do men think they’re allowed to play with your emotions? Women aren’t games. We can be won or lost, but we’re not supposed to be played.
The words flow from my mind to the page in a bummed-out stream of consciousness. I’ve written five whole pages by the time I run out of things to say. Five, useless pages that barely talk about the actual date. I can’t turn any of this in to Ingrid. I just feel exhausted and depressed.
Wrapping the big purple blanket around my shoulders, I drag myself out of my bedroom and head for the kitchen. Fortunately, the only other living creature I see is Waffle, napping by the window. No Ryan yet.
In the freezer, I’ve got a carton of ice cream waiting for me in case of emergencies.
I scoop myself a big bowl, then bring it back to the sofa for a nice long sulking session.
I open up my profile on Sequel and pick the first TV show that comes up.
Breaking Bad. I’ve had enough guys tell me I had to watch it, I guess this was inevitable eventually.
I’m only five minutes in when the elevator doors open. I don’t even turn around—I don’t want to see Ryan’s face right now.
“Home already, Pips?” he drawls. “It’s barely nine. Your date really couldn’t wait to get rid of you, huh?”
When I don’t answer him, he leans over the back of the sofa and pokes my cheek.
“Hellooooo, earth to Pippa!”
I squeeze my eyes shut. “I’m not in the mood,” I say in a monotone voice.
Ryan’s silent for a moment. “What are you eating?” he asks finally.
I glare up at him, holding up my ice cream bowl as a silent explanation. He shakes his head and grabs the bowl out of my hand. Fury rises to the surface of my mind, breaking through the thick layer of sadness.
“Give that back!” I demand.
“No way. You’re not eating this cheap store-bought Neapolitan. I should have thrown that carton out the second I saw it.”
“But I need that ice cream!” My voice comes out like a whiny teen’s.
“Just stay there and keep your pants on. Or don’t. You’ll get your ice cream.”
He strides off to the kitchen. I should chase after him, but gravity still pulls me hard back onto the couch. The urge not to move is even more powerful than the urge to get justice for my stolen ice cream.
A few minutes later, Ryan returns, whistling something. He’s got two bowls in his hands, and he gives me one.
“That’s better,” he proclaims, dropping down on the couch next to me. “Ben & Jerry’s chunky monkey with chocolate syrup and sprinkles.”
“We have Ben & Jerry’s? I didn’t see it.”
“Because I hid it in the back of the fridge. Think with your head, Pips.”
Ryan grabs the edge of my purple blanket and pulls it over to cover his legs.
I consider yelling at him to get his own blanket, but that’s the beauty of the giant purple blanket—it’s big enough to cover two, maybe even three people.
If he’s sharing his fancy ice cream, I guess he can have a little blanket to himself.
Across from us, the gas fireplace flickers behind its glass, throwing soft light over the room and turning Ryan’s bare forearms into something out of a very specific king of daydream I refuse to admit ever having.
“Do you want to talk about what happened?” he asks.
Of course I don’t. I don’t want to feed Ryan’s ego any further, letting him know how much Trevor liked him better than me. Then again…
“Do me a favor, Ryan. If a guy named Trevor Singh applies to play in your New Year’s tournament, tell him to go fuck himself.”
He chuckles. “You got it, kid.”
We stare at the screen for a few minutes, and my eyes start glazing over.
“You don’t want to watch Breaking Bad,” Ryan says, shaking his head. “Wait a sec, I know what you need.”
Picking up the remote, he navigates through the Sequel homepage until he’s on episode one, season one of The Vampire Diaries. It’s my ultimate comfort show, and I’ve watched it at least five times, start to finish. I can’t believe Ryan remembered that I like it.
The opening scene starts, Stefan Salvatore’s voice filling the living room. Ryan takes a big bite of ice cream, then points at the couple in the car.
“They’re definitely getting vampire’d,” he says around his mouth full of ice cream.
I punch him lightly in the arm. “Shhh, you’ll miss things!”
He mimes zipping his lips shut and relaxes back into the couch.
We sit there together for a while, eating ice cream and staring at the screen. I know girly fantasy isn’t really Ryan’s thing, but he pays attention and doesn’t complain. Something about the fact that he’s willing to sit here and watch my favorite show with me burrows into my chest.
So when I feel the urge to lean against his shoulder, I do it. Ryan doesn’t make a snarky comment, for once. He silently lets me settle in against him.
The whole thing is inexplicable. I don’t understand how the person who infuriates me the most and the one who knows me best can be the same person.