Chapter 9 #2
One of the many unpleasant consequences of being eye-fucked by someone who still counts half birthdays is that what once felt like a sexy amount of cleavage now feels obscene.
I’m discreetly tucking my breasts deeper into my bra, while damning the broken system that demands I adjust my body for a little boy who never learned the word no, when bachelor number one’s approach stalls my adjustments cold.
Unfortunately, this temporary paralysis leaves me palming my own breast. Worse yet, before my brain can scream for me to STOP TOUCHING YOUR NIPPLE, YOU PERVERT, the nipple in question goes rogue—budding at the sight of him.
There’s no truly inconspicuous way to stop feeling yourself up in public once you’ve been caught, but unlike my waiter du jour, the man standing before me is respectful enough to avert his gaze. I use the moment of privacy to right my shirt and appreciate my dinner companion.
After four years with salt of the earth guys in the Midwest, my expectations for men’s dress options exist on a sliding scale that ranges from denim to good denim.
So you’ll forgive me the boardroom fantasy I indulge in as he shrugs out of his bespoke jacket, revealing a crisp white button-up that stretches in protest against his flexing pecs.
His blue eyes stare, unwavering, as he folds the discarded jacket over the back of his empty chair, before rounding the table to get to me. The smile he wears is both teasing and disarming. He’s stalking me, and I, the feeblest of prey, reach out willingly for him to pull me up from my seat.
I’d never admit aloud what it does to me when he holds my hand in both of his, taking control of the movement, but Toto, I have a feeling we’re not in Kansas anymore.
The slightest tug at my hand invites me into his quick introductory hug.
Against the contrast of his firm body and slightly stubbled cheek pressing into mine, my own body goes soft.
I momentarily sink deeper into the embrace and the scent of his soap and something faintly spicy as it ensnares my senses.
But he doesn’t linger. Nothing about the gesture is overly intimate and I appreciate that.
So far, he’s doing everything right. But then, because they simply cannot help themselves, he does the thing they’ve all insisted on doing since ancient man choked out his inaugural grunt—he speaks.
“Ryan Burgess,” he proclaims, taking his seat before I’ve found mine again. “I hope you weren’t waiting long. It hadn’t occurred to me that you’d beat me here.”
Then he chuckles.
“Fifteen minutes late seems to be the new normal for you girls. I’ve taken to building that buffer in for myself now too. Seems only fair.”
If he wasn’t so tickled by the many micro-misogynies he’s doling out, he’d see the physical effect his “joke” has on me—a verbal cold shower, immediately cooling any dull embers of attraction that had briefly sparked.
“The partner track doesn’t come with a work-life balance as it is, I’m afraid. I can’t afford to be kept waiting. You’d be amazed by how much I can accomplish in fifteen minutes.”
I ignore his smirk at the most unsexy sex reference ever uttered in favor of recalling the details of Ryan’s questionnaire.
Now that there’s exactly zero sexual tension clouding my brain, I recall Zola’s brief rundown.
Ryan Burgess is a box checker, as she put it.
Great schooling (Yale, as I’m sure he’ll be announcing loudly and often), great prospects (on track to be his firm’s youngest partner), great future (in a Greenwich, Connecticut, zip code, no doubt).
Unfortunately, as far as I can tell, he’s not a particularly great person.
“You’re…” Ryan begins again, searching his Ivy League brain. “A teacher, right? So, you don’t have to worry about the whole work-life thing.”
This time my fiery glare finds its target.
“Hey, I envy it,” he says, backpedaling only somewhat. “That’s the way to go. My parents were already six figures in debt to Yale Law when I realized I’d all but signed my life away. Far too late to pivot to a job with summers off.”
Only used car salesmen and this fucking guy laugh at their own jokes this much. I’m sure of it.
“I’ve been out with quite a few teachers. I get the appeal. Not a field where you fall down the corporate ladder if you need off for weddings and babies and all that. It makes sense.”
“Actually,” I interject, and it’s only when the word hangs between us that I realize it’s the first I’ve uttered since Ryan stormed in—a sexy, egotistical tornado, sucking up all the air in the room. “It’s the men in my family who sparked my interest in education.”
Shit, I think to myself. I’m surprised to have made a careless admission on which I have no intention of elaborating.
But I should’ve known better than to worry about Ryan latching onto a thought that doesn’t center on him entirely. Instead, he cranes his neck to see over my hair, head pivoting as he surveys the restaurant.
“Where is she?” he says, mostly to himself.
I turn to follow his view. “Who?”
“The waitress.” He makes a show of checking his watch, as if he’s being kept from more important matters.
“Now I have to apologize doubly. This time for her tardiness.” He says this as if his entitlement is somehow for my benefit.
“Whenever she does finally grace us with her presence, please feel free to order anything you like. Zola mentioned you’re currently living at home?
Tonight’s my treat. And thanks for waiting to order.
You wouldn’t believe how rare that home training is these days. ”
I check the restaurant’s perimeter greenery once more. I’m disappointed not to find Zo beneath the faux olive trees, filming what I’ve now come to hope is a prank. But my mood improves somewhat when I see our waitress returning. Penis and all.
“Sorry for the wait,” he says, as he presents my cocktail. “Bartenders made me dig the grapefruits outta the walk-in for your twist.”
I raise my poetically timed drink delivery toward my date. “It seems, I, too, was raised by wolves.” And I turn back toward Peeping Tom, who’s suddenly become the lesser of two evils, to say, “Cheers, Tom.”
His eyes dart nervously across the table and back again. “Uh. My name is Jared.”
I drain the glass as Ryan and Jared (apparently) look on in disgust and awe, respectively. In my best mock-Stepford, I dab the corners of my mouth with my cloth napkin.
“My mistake,” I say, before tapping the rim. “Jared, I’m gonna do one more of these.”
And then, because how much or little I enjoy my evening will correlate directly with how miserable I can make Ryan, I turn to him in invitation. “And for tonight’s sponsor? Anything you like.”
I expect his cool blue eyes to blaze, but Ryan’s face flashes from shock to intrigue.
He nods toward the glass I’m currently rubbing sweat from. “Bourbon?”
“Mezcal,” I correct.
His eyebrow quirks like he’s impressed, and I cannot express how little I care to impress this man.
With renewed intensity to his eye contact, Ryan speaks again, but this time he’s finally addressing our waiter when he says, “Make it two.”
—
The rest of the evening follows the same tiresome cycle—trading insults masquerading as flirty first date banter. Me, trying like hell to bury this fucking guy beneath the spike of my stiletto, and him, in return, laughing his grating old boys’ club chortle like we’re in on the joke together.
By the time the dessert cart rolls around, I’m:
fairly certain Zola has no future in matchmaking,
ready to light this guy up in tomorrow’s postmortem, and
shmammered.
“So, Zola—my sister—set this up.”
It’s a clarification that would’ve made more sense earlier in the night, but I thought I’d have figured it out by now. After two hours, I still don’t get it.
“You’re paying her for this service. And this,” I say, gesturing between us, “is the match she chose.”
Ryan’s nod is coupled with a sigh as he leans into the table, his angular chin propped up on steepled fingertips. “Look, I’m an old-school guy—”
“Ya don’t say.”
“I was on the apps for a while after Eliza declined my last contract renewal.”
There it is. One matchmaker’s trash, I guess.
“But the females on there…” he continues. And not for the first time tonight, I wonder why Zola hates me. “They’re a different breed. I don’t have a clue what they want, but it’s not the kind of relationship I’m looking for.”
As I remove my bag from the chairback, I’m still mentally stuck back at “females,” but Ryan doesn’t pause long enough for me to catch up.
“Zola called at the right time,” he continues. “Said she wanted to keep working with me. Convinced me to try it her way this time. Some shit about slaying your dating demons, I don’t know. The deck she sent had a picture of you, and she cut Eliza’s prices in half. I liked everything I saw.”
Ryan seems to be attempting some version of bro vulnerability—I wonder if that was also in Zola’s dating guide. The one she’d conveniently forgotten to give me.
His misguided words don’t move me, but they do cut through my mental fog enough for me to refocus on retrieving the phone from my purse. But the missed message notifications on the lock screen briefly distract me from ordering a car.
8:07pm
Zola: I need Ro’s help with something.
I’d already wanted to get home to see the look on Zo’s face when I tear our contract to shreds in front of her, but reading the Nm. Got it text that follows makes getting home even more urgent. I need to know what she wants with Ro.
But both of those plans are quickly forgotten when I read the other awaiting texts.
8:52pm
Ro: I expect updates!
9:47pm
Ro: You forget about me?
I’d promised to send Ro the play-by-play as the night progressed, but he’s lucky to have avoided my real-time updates. And I can sum up the experience for him easily:
10:12pm
Me: OMG. SENDD HELP P
Ro: Ha that bad? What happened?
“Can I offer you a ride?” Ryan interrupts without looking up from signing the check he’d insisted on paying. Not that I put up much of a fight. I’ll file tonight away as charity work of sorts—attempted rehab of a broken man.
His shirtsleeves are rolled up to his elbows now, tie hanging open around his neck.
There’s no denying that Ryan Burgess is the stuff late-night fantasies are made of.
But even this current state of buzzy undress on a man who’s been turning heads all night isn’t enough to warm the shivers trailing down my spine at the prospect of spending another moment in his company.
“I have a Lyft coming,” I lie.
My phone pings in my hand. I check it immediately, sparing no thought to first date etiquette.
Ro: You ok? Where are you?
Me: Antonios. getting a car. gotta get outta here
Ro: That’s right by me. I can be there in 5. Can Uber beat that?
I check. No, Uber cannot beat that. Nor can Lyft.
Me: You sure?
Ro: Yes. Already walking out.
The sound of Ryan clearing his throat provides a necessary reminder that he’s still here.
The expression he wears could be mistaken for boredom, if not for the indignant posture of his left eyebrow and the slight flare of his nose.
Like he said at the top of the evening, Ryan is not a man who likes to be kept waiting.
It’s also painfully clear that he’s not a man who should’ve been seated across from me tonight.
“Look,” I begin, focused intently on unsloshing the words in my brain before they leave my lips. “I appreciate you coming, but I think I’m gonna head out.”
The only confirmation I have that Ryan even heard me is the subtle shake of his head that acts as a dismissal, before he reclines slightly in his chair and takes out his phone.
Without my permission, and most certainly as a result of that fourth cocktail, my eyes roam over his broad chest and the pull of those buttons.
Snapping a mental image before I go. I continue down his arms to his hands, mostly hidden behind the table—and I know this man is not doing what I think he’s doing.
“Was that a swipe?” I ask, appalled. “Are you on an app right now?”
Ryan’s scoff is incredulous—I hope he chokes on it. “You really think I took a peak train back from the city to not get laid tonight?”
Then he keeps right on swiping. Above the table, now. For all of Antonio’s to see.
I’ll never know if Ryan hears it as a reaction to the alcohol or his limitless audacity, but when my stomach gurgles a warning, I stand abruptly. “I think I’m gonna be sick.”
And when my phone pings in my hand, Ro’s here text is the most beautiful prose I’ve ever read.
—
I launch myself into Ro’s truck.
“I thought you needed a ride, not a getaway,” Ro says, laughing. “If we’re about to end up on the news, maybe an Uber’s the right way to go. You’re cute and all, but—”
“Just drive!” I yell, laughing as I recline the seat completely, committing to the scene Ro’s set.
He shakes his head as he shifts into gear. “Well, hi to you too.”
My stomach is still less than thrilled with me as we make our way through town. I open the window, breathing deeply so the fresh air can replace the toxins currently off-gassing in my liver.
“I don’t normally drink like this on first dates,” I say, unsure what compelled me to explain myself.
“I’m not judging you,” he says. He’s driving with purpose, though I haven’t actually told him where to take me. “You gonna tell me what happened back there?”
My head falls to the crook of my elbow, resting on the window. “You wouldn’t believe it if I did.”
At the next red light, Ro turns to me, his face relaxed and open as he waits.
I meet his eyes, and I’m relieved by the warm depths of his dark gaze, when moments before, I’d seen Ryan’s sharp blue frost. And there’s no challenge or baiting in his tone when he speaks next.
There’s only an invitation, when he smiles and says, “Try me.”