Chapter 16
16
HUNTER
I throw in the towel on this date—literally by dropping my napkin on my still-empty plate. But as I stand to leave, Lucas shows cobra-like reflexes, grabbing my wrist from across the table to prevent me from standing. His clammy palm closes around my flesh, gripping too tightly. It feels like I have an actual snake coiled over my wrist instead of a human hand.
I yank my arm away, but he holds fast, his fingers digging into my skin.
“Let me go,” I hiss.
But Lucas doesn’t budge. As an irrational panic is about to set in, Dylan surges from the table next to ours, his presence dominating the scene.
“Let her go,” Dylan orders, deathly calm.
Lucas ignores his request. “Look, buddy, we’re in the middle of??—”
Dylan’s expression remains mild as he clamps his hand on Lucas’s shoulder, the grip firm enough to silence him. “First off, I’m not your buddy . And whatever you think you were in the middle of? That’s done.”
The two men stare each other down, our bodies locked in this bizarre chain where Dylan’s gripping Lucas, and Lucas still has his disgusting fingers around my wrist. We’re like some twisted version of a team-building exercise, except no one’s bonding, and everyone wants out of the circle.
Dylan cuts an impressive figure in his tailored suit. He has this “Clark Kent moments before ducking into a phone booth to become Superman” vibe to him. He emanates a quiet strength, an untapped well of energy waiting to be unleashed. His broad shoulders fill out his jacket in a way that suggests he could rip through the fabric if the situation called for it. Lucas, instead, looks like he’s poured himself into an off-the-rack suit that strains against his protein-shake muscles.
The contrast between them is stark. Dylan exudes a calm, dominant authority, while Lucas radiates the desperate bravado of a schoolyard bully who’s just figured out he’s picked on the wrong kid. Under Dylan’s steady glare, my date seems to shrink, as if realizing he isn’t facing an ordinary man, but a force of nature barely contained by a civilized attire.
It’s easy to imagine Dylan’s tie coming off, his shirt ripping, revealing a big ‘S’ underneath. Judging by the way Lucas’s face reddens, but his lips stop moving, he’s clearly hoping this particular Superman keeps his alter ego in place.
After a few more beats of silence, Lucas decides he can’t win the fight and releases my wrist, leaving a reddish mark where his fingers had been. Finally free, I massage my skin. Dylan’s eyes follow the gesture, zeroing in on the faint bruise. His expression darkens, and he glares with such controlled fury that Lucas recoils in his chair, making it scrape on the floor as he stands up, chuckling while he backs away.
“Hey man, no need to make a scene.” Lucas raises his hands. “It was all a misunderstanding. And I was leaving, anyway.”
Dylan doesn’t break eye contact with Lucas, his body still tense, not even when Lucas makes one last attempt at maintaining some semblance of dignity, tossing a careless comment my way.
“She’s not worth the trouble, man.”
Dylan’s jaw goes so tight I fear a vortex might whip around him after all and reveal him in his superhero suit as he wipes the floor with Lucas. But Dylan doesn’t move. His stance remains rigid and controlled, his eyes burning with quiet fury. But his silence still speaks louder than any words could. Lucas shrivels under the weight of it, giving Dylan a wide berth as he circles our table and bolts for the exit.
Once Lucas is gone, Dylan’s gaze shifts back to me, his concern softening the hard edges of his expression. “Are you okay?” he asks, his voice gentle.
I’m mortified, but I manage a nod. “Yeah, I’m okay. Thanks for…” For what? Thanks for rescuing me from the latest gem I found on a dating app? Thanks for ruining your own date to save me from my disastrous one?
Speaking of his date, I spot Olivia behind Dylan, and she looks absolutely not okay. Her face is a storm of emotions: hurt, confusion, and most of all, anger. She’s sitting rigid, her hand clenched around the edge of the table as if she’s struggling to hold back her rage.
I try to convey this to Dylan, widening my eyes and tilting my head in Olivia’s direction. But Dylan, bless his oblivious heart, is still looking at me, missing my nonverbal cues.
Just as I’m about to verbalize the impending girlfriend crisis, Olivia stands up, throwing her napkin on the table, nostrils flaring, as she addresses Dylan.
“I’ll leave as well.” Her voice rises with every word. “Since you are more interested in her night than ours.”
Dylan spins around, registering Olivia’s presence and her less-than-pleased demeanor. “Olivia, wait,” he starts, his hands raised in a placating gesture. “I had to step in.”
But Olivia is having none of it. She grabs her purse, her knuckles white from the tight grip. “Really, Dylan? Because from where I’m sitting, it looks like you care more about her date than ours.”
The accusation hangs in the air, heavy and loaded. Dylan opens his mouth to respond, but Olivia doesn’t give him the chance.
“Save it. I’ve had enough bullshit for one night.” She stomps out of the restaurant, her heels clicking sharply against the floor with each furious step.
Dylan calls after her, his voice tinged with desperation. “Olivia, please. Let me explain.”
She doesn’t even falter. Olivia heads straight for the exit, not sparing him a second glance. And just like that, she’s gone, leaving Dylan gaping and stunned.
He stays rooted on the spot. Then, as if snapping out of a trance, he turns to me, his expression apologetic.
“Hunter, I’m so sorry, but I have to…” He gestures toward the door.
I jerk my chin in the same direction. “Go,” I tell him, mustering a weak smile. “And thanks again for everything.”
He gives me a quick, grateful nod before rushing out after Olivia, shouting for her to wait, to let him explain. My wrist aches where Lucas grabbed me, but what hurts the most is watching Dylan run after his girlfriend.
And then, I’m alone. Sitting deflated at my table, my pulse still racing from the confrontation. I slump as the weight of the night settles into my bones. Everything feels heavier now: the room, my body, the not-quite-silence of the restaurant. I’m too drained to contemplate how I’ll face Dylan after this. Or the mess our cohabitation is turning out to be.
Soon, the adrenaline wears off, leaving me even more exhausted. I’m about to drop my head in my hands when the server arrives with our main courses, balancing the plates with an awkward smile. The rich aroma that would have been enticing under normal circumstances now turns my stomach.
“Could you please box everything?” My voice sounds distant even to my own ears. “And bring the check. Thanks.”
She nods, whisking the plates away, and returns a short while later with my boxed meal and two leather folders.
I expect her to hand me one, but she doesn’t, shifting uncomfortably on her feet.
“I’m sorry, miss.” She hesitates. “But will you be settling the bill for the table next door as well? They’ve left, and you all seem to know each other…”
If the situation didn’t suck so much, it might be funny. Isn’t it hilarious? Having to foot Dylan’s bill is the cherry on top of an already calamitous evening.
“I’ll pay for both,” I tell the server.
She hands me the leather folders. I open the first, and my jaw drops as I scan the items. Twenty-six dollars for a platter of snails, plus tips and taxes.
It’s a metaphor for my life. Unwanted, bitter, and far more costly than I bargained for. And then there’s the eighty-dollar bottle of wine they ordered…
I contemplate the receipts in stunned disbelief. How fitting to be left alone, with no man, no love, no direction, and not one, but two printed reminders of how pathetic my life is.
I swipe my credit card and sign on the dotted line, my hand moving on autopilot. As I rise from my seat, I glance at the bottle of wine still sitting nearly full on Dylan and Olivia’s forlorn table.
Without thinking, I grab it, tucking it under my arm. If I’m going to wallow in misery tonight, I might as well have a decent drink to keep me company.
The warm summer air hits my face as I emerge onto the bustling New York street. The city’s alive around me, people laughing and chatting as they pass by, but I feel disconnected from it all.
Clutching the wine as a tragic consolation prize, I raise my hand to flag down a cab because even a few blocks’ walk home seems like too much. One slows, then speeds up the second the driver spots the bottle under my arm. Seriously? I try again. The next one doesn’t even hesitate, just zooms right past like I’m holding a grenade. Perfect.
After the third cab swerves out of reach, it hits me how people must see me from outside, walking down the street with an open bottle of wine. No one’s stopping for me.
Great. I’m officially “that girl.” You know, the hot mess you avoid eye contact with because she looks like she’s going to drink herself into a stupor on a sidewalk.
I sigh, resigning myself to walk home. Please, don’t let me get arrested for public drinking. With my recent luck, a cop is bound to stop me any second, and then I’ll be explaining how I’m not starring in a rom-com, and there’s no hidden camera crew ready to film my “everything will be okay” moment. I’m just someone who got dumped—no, wait, that isn’t the right word. Gaslighted by one man and platonically rescued and then ditched by the other? Yes. I’m the loser who had to pick up the tab for two men who definitely aren’t dating me.
And spending the night in jail would sound more promising than having to share an apartment with Dylan. Dear officer, could you also write me up for tragic life decisions while you’re at it?