Chapter 10
The week following the trip to Robert’s ranch, I felt like I was being wrung out and twisted dry every time Robert’s eyes met mine, every time he pointed at me with his fingers shaped like a pistol and called me shooter.
If only he hadn’t been so welcoming and so protective of me during that visit.
It made delivering this week’s envelope of cash to Margie Fischer worse than ever, not because of the cameras—I decided there weren’t enough security guards in the world to actually watch all the footage those Titan cameras recorded—but because all I could see when I looked at that envelope of money was Robert with his hand on my back, pouring me another bourbon and saying thatta girl in his unguarded twang when I swallowed it down in a single gulp.
I needed to be done with this. I needed to get Margie’s blackmail debt settled and have this be over, because after the bonding we’d done at the ranch, I would literally die—from shame more than guilt—if Robert found out what was going on.
Midweek, Kevin and I met for lunch at the chopped-salad station in the Titan cafeteria and he drilled me with questions: How many acres is the ranch? Were there horses? What did you think of Wiles’s wife? She used to be a stripper, that’s how they met, can you believe that?
“I can totally believe that,” I said. In fact, the first thing I’d reported back to Emily upon returning from the ranch was: “Glen Wiles’s wife looks like a former stripper; I bet that’s how they met.”
Kevin shook a bottle of balsamic over his spinach salad. “Come on, Tina, give me something, some gory detail. Were the toilet seats made of gold? Was the main course an endangered species?”
I took comfort in the fact that Kevin’s tone was more curious than snooping, which calmed my paranoia somewhat. This was no official investigation.
He passed me the Russian dressing. “Did Robert make you slice the limes for everyone, or did he have a servant to do that?”
“Screw you.” I slammed the bottle of Russian dressing down too hard, causing it to spurt orangey-pink nastiness into the air.
I looked down to find the front of my navy-blue sweater speckled with the stuff, but I ignored it.
“Robert is really good to me. Slicing the office limes is just part of my job.”
Kevin was taken aback by this sudden turnaround. In the past I’d always been glad to rag on Robert for an easy laugh.
“Sorry,” he said, after the longest twenty seconds of all time. “I didn’t mean to . . .”
“It’s fine.” The chopped salad attendant offered me a napkin and I addressed my sweater. “It’s just that Robert was a model host and—”
“I get it,” Kevin said. “He’s your boss, you’re right, I was out of line.”
He didn’t get it at all. But it was better that way.
We made our way back to the elevator bank, awkwardly silent.
“We still on for Saturday night?” he asked, sheepish, like this one flub might have blown it between us forever.
I nodded. “Let’s go to the movies.”
“Great idea,” he said.
And it was: the less talking I had to do, the better.
—
Kevin and I were set to meet at the Chelsea Bow Tie cinema on Saturday night for a seven fifteen p.m. showing of the new Jennifer Lawrence movie.
The Chelsea Bow Tie was my favorite theater in the city because it was often filled with peacocking gay men wearing bow ties, and I just couldn’t resist the obviousness of that.
Plus, in the case of a film starring a diva icon—Cher, Barbra Streisand, Sarah Jessica Parker, James Franco—full tuxedos or outlandish costumes were never out of the question.
I got to the movie theater a solid half hour too early and panicked about whether I should buy the tickets, so I decided to circle the block in the humid, ninety-degree heat, walking slowly (to the chagrin of all the fast-paced, pathologically tardy New Yorkers behind me) so as not to whip up a sweat.
This was the first of my and Kevin’s dates to which I wore jeans and sneakers, and my trusty Converse One Stars were coming in handy now.
On the third lap, I spotted Kevin standing in front of the theater. He was wearing a short-sleeve collared shirt, jeans, and sneakers.
Yes. No dress shoes. We were outfit-synced. (I was equally thankful he had not chosen to wear a bow tie.)
Kevin held up the tickets as I walked toward him, and when I reached him, he tapped a finger on his silver wristwatch. “You’re right on time,” he said.
I beamed like a person with impeccable timing.
Then he laughed and wrapped his arm around my shoulders. “I have to confess. I saw you circling the block.”
“Damn it!”
He drew me in tighter, not allowing me to escape the humiliation. “I appreciate the gesture,” he said. “Lots of other girls would have just stood there watching the clock, making me feel bad for being late.”
“But you’re fifteen minutes early,” I said.
“I meant late according to Tina Fontana time,” he said, smiling.
We made our way inside, and Kevin let me break free from his hold at the refreshments counter. “Popcorn or candy?” he asked.
Was this a trick question?
It was our first time at the movies together, which was no simple ordeal for me.
I had very specific needs when attending the cinema.
Get stuck midrow, up too close to the screen, or too far back, and it was over for me.
I may as well have just headed home. I preferred—no, required—a centrally situated aisle seat, the most coveted location among the anxious and weak-bladdered.
“How about popcorn and candy?” Kevin grabbed for his wallet.
Good man.
“Surprise me,” I said, trying to sound spontaneous and nonchalant. “I’ll go save us seats.”
Which I did, but the theater had already filled up—the only aisle seat available was a single—so I settled for two midrow seats, closer to the screen than was comfortable, and tried to not be a little bitch about it.
The theater went dark a few seconds before Kevin appeared, looking around like a retriever pup when you pretend to toss his ball but keep it in your hand.
He hugged one arm around the most gigantic vat of popcorn I’d ever seen, and the other around a soda so enormous it would have sent former mayor of New York Mike Bloomberg into instant diabetic shock. I waved him over.
Somehow he managed not to douse anyone as he climbed over the knees separating us, or if he did, they just let it slide because look at this sweet Labrador of a man so eager to please his female guest.
He handed me the twenty-pound-bucket of popcorn, sat, and whispered, “God, I hate sitting in the middle of a row, but that’s all on me; next time I’ll make sure to arrive earlier.”
Then he pulled two supersize boxes of candy from I don’t even know where because they couldn’t have possibly fit in the pockets of his crisp jeans.
“I wasn’t sure if you’d prefer Butterfinger Bites or Twizzlers, so I got both,” he said.
“Also, I got Cherry Coke. I hope that’s okay. I never drink Cherry Coke, except—”
“Except at the movies, with popcorn,” I said, finishing his sentence, which was actually my sentence.
“For the salty and sweet,” he said, tilting his head and smiling so bright his teeth sparkled white even in the darkness.
This shit might actually work out, I thought.
The trailers charged ahead, one after the next, “In a world . . .” and all that, and Kevin reached for my hand.
I looked at him, and right then he went in and touched my lips with his.
Just like that. It was a kiss so soft and sweet, and salty, too, that I didn’t even have the chance to think: Do people on dates still kiss in the movies?
Especially a first kiss. Nope. By the time my brain had the capacity for critical thinking, the kiss had already happened and the movie had started.
We both turned to watch the screen, but I couldn’t focus on anything but my panic.
This was a bad idea—as I’d been repeating to myself every time Kevin made some obvious, yet still unbelievable, gesture toward liking me.
Bad, bad, bad. Now wasn’t the time to let anyone get close.
Especially someone so connected to the situation.
I’d spent so much of my life alone, loveless, sexless, under my bedspread binge-watching away my loneliness.
And now—now?—I strike upon a potential boyfriend?
A man who isn’t certifiably insane, or an active alcoholic, or an unemployed drummer in a noise band—a man who recognizes the intense synergistic effect Cherry Coke has with movie popcorn? WTF, as they say.
Kevin moved his hand to my knee. He gently, almost imperceptibly, stroked a soft circle up my thigh.
Not smart, Fontana. Bad, bad, bad. But, goddamn, it felt good.