Chapter 3 #2
I’m intrigued. And even me—with my no-makeup, hair-in-a-knot-most-times self—cannot resist making a little move, even after accosting him and accusing him of public indecency.
“Want to sit on a chair that’s not soaked? There’s a free lounger next to mine up front. A good view of the ocean.”
It’s probably weird to be flirting with a guy I wanted to be arrested minutes ago, but, dammit, he’s attractive. Alluring.
We move to the better view.
“Do you prefer being called Dave or David?” I ask, trying to distract him from our rather tragic first encounters.
“Either. Maybe Dave. Probably my mom uses David more?” He sips his drink. “And you have an awful career of some sort, I gather?”
That wink he gives me as he lies back is annoyingly cute.
I hesitate before answering, as my career doesn’t sound like a real career. “I work in the food arena. Sort of.”
“You sort of cook food?”
“No.” I laugh and tell him about how I accidentally became an influencer because of an account I’d created years ago. “But now my posts are all about Boston restaurants. Mostly the smaller ones I want to help out. Give them the business they deserve.”
He can see I’m not happy. “But something changed?”
My buzz and I end up telling this Dave person how I’m pulled in too many directions, how uncomfortable it is to have a career that I don’t feel like I deserve. “So weird to be making money off of helping restaurants survive.”
“Seems to me that you’re doing a good thing.”
“Maybe.” And then I ask him what feels like the most important question. I lift up my sunglasses and lean his way. “How do you feel about dumplings?”
He whips his head my way. “Like, potstickers? Gyoza?”
“Yes.”
“That’s an easy answer.” Dave inhales the last of his drink and signals for another, one that arrives within a minute, as the staff is now probably afraid of some lawsuit. “Crucial to life. Those and all the sauces. Do you know about that scallion sauce, where you pour hot oil over chopped greens?”
That was unexpected. And, for me, a totally sexy response.
I roll his way. “I do.”
My phone rings with a FaceTime call.
“It’s Patrick,” I yell out.
With no hesitation, this Dave randomly shares my energy and raises his glass to this call. “Finally!”
I laugh and pick up. “Oh, hello, my friend Patrick! You are here with my new friend, Dave! We are in Puerto Rico and drinking drinks.”
“Well, hello, New Friend Dave!” Patrick says jovially. “I’m Patrick, calling from Cleveland. Where are you from?”
“Way northern Maine,” Dave answers. “A small fishing village.”
“And what do you do there, sir, in way northern Maine?” Patrick asks.
“I own a food truck. Serving mostly seafood in the small town where I grew up.”
“Wait, what? So, you feed fishermen?” I ask. “Aren’t they sick of seafood?”
“Oh, not at all,” he says. “They actually can’t get enough. And then there’s the tourist season, so that’s good for business. It’s actually right now, in the summer. Best and stupidest time for me to get away, but here I am. For an anniversary of sorts.”
Patrick yelps. “Diana, run away. He is clearly a serial killer.” He whispers, “Should I call 911?”
I whisper back, “Not yet, but I’ll let you know if things take a weird turn.”
To my annoyance, Patrick has to chime in with, “Oh, by the way, New Friend Dave? Food trucks are Diana’s weakness.”
He raises his glass. “Not a bad weakness.”
“Do you offer fried oysters? ’Cause I’ll marry you right now,” I blurt out.
David smiles. “I do.”
“Patrick, did you hear that? I’m about to get married!”
My friend’s laughing eye roll can be seen on our video all. “Lucky man!”
I look at my lounge partner as I jab my finger at the phone. “By the way, David, you should know that Patrick used to pretend he was allergic to seafood, but it was bullshit!”
“It wasn’t bullshit. Not entirely,” Patrick claims weakly.
“You were never allergic. The lie started when your mom microwaved fish and it rightfully put you off.”
He sighs. “She didn’t microwave it. She put it in a Crock-Pot with thousand island dressing and cooked it for a century.”
“Even worse! No wonder you lied!” I shout and then laugh at Dave’s horrified expression.
Microwave? he mouths at me.
Patrick grumbles, “Fine. But I had an emotional allergy.”
“Until I fixed you,” I say smugly.
“Yeah, you fixed me,” he agrees. “And I fixed your bathroom when that toilet exploded above you.”
“Hey! What’s that background noise?” I ask.
“Running a grocery errand for Katrina. And hang on. I have to look for something.”
While he’s got me in his literal pocket, I reach again for my drink and lean toward my new oceanside friend. “Patrick is like my brother. My bestie from my first day of college. His wife, Katrina, is cool. She’s an artist, who also went to school with us.”
“So …” Dave starts with a terrible nonchalant act, which I appreciate. “You guys never hooked up?” he asks. “He’s not an ex?”
“Ew, never!” I adjust my seat on the lounger. “I mean, he’s cute, but we’ve never had that vibe. He’s always been like a brother. And he’s married, remember? Also,” I ask coyly, “why do you care?”
This Dave boy winks. “Just checking. Making sure I won’t interfere in anything.”
“Won’t interfere if you do what?”
“Make a move on a beautiful, enchanting girl.”
Before I can respond, Patrick comes back in with, “I’m still here, you horny perverts! I heard all that sexy flirting.”
Not that I’m one for blushing, but I probably am doing so now. So, I deflect.
“Remember how you owe me for that time I saved your life? I’m cashing in.”
“Goddamn you,” Patrick says playfully.
“You saved his life?” Dave asks. “I have a feeling we’re getting ready for some glorious payback.”