Chapter One #2
He stared at me for a beat, like he was trying to work out if that first comment was sarcastic or not.
It weirdly lifted my mood, gave me a tiny sliver of hope.
Before that, it wasn’t always clear how much he was even following my side of the conversation—so far, he’d either ignored what I’d said or seemed to want to debate a slightly different version of it.
Maybe by the time dinner came, he’d be ready to ask me questions or reciprocate in any way.
“My older sister Kathleen,” he said. “Then after me, my sister Siobhán. My brother Eamonn. And then there are the twins, Rachel and Claire.”
That snagged my interest. “Oh wow. You have a lot of siblings.”
“Yes, well done,” he said. “Go ahead and make the joke. I’ve heard it before.”
I was sorry I’d gotten us down this path at all. Somehow, I seemed to have really offended this guy, but I couldn’t figure out how. “No, no joke,” I said. “I don’t know, I’ve always liked the idea of a big family. I’m trash for—”
“Stop,” he said, harsh enough that I flinched. “Don’t do that. I hate when you do that.”
His mouth was a tight line, and he looked genuinely upset.
Not just upset…angry. I couldn’t believe the way he’d said that—I hate when you do that—like he’d known me for longer than fifteen minutes, like we had a relationship deep enough for him to have already developed a strong distaste for some pattern or habit of mine.
I wasn’t even entirely sure what he was talking about.
“You hate when I…do what?”
“That self-deprecating kind of humor, I hate that.”
I still had to trace backward through what I’d said to piece it together. “I’m trash for? That’s just an expression. You know, a meme. I’m trash for iced coffee, that kind of thing.”
“And then earlier you said you weren’t good at first dates,” he pointed out. “Just stop it. It’s unattractive, putting yourself down like that.”
If anything, that had been a vulnerable confession in hopes of easing the early awkwardness between us. One that he hadn’t even bothered to respond to in the moment, so I was surprised to hear him bringing it up now. “I’m not very good at first dates,” I said, my voice flat. “Clearly.”
“Well, if I can give you some constructive feedback, you could try being a little more positive. Smile more. You looked a lot happier in your profile picture.”
That’s because my best friend took the shot, I wanted to say, and she wasn’t in the middle of giving me any constructive feedback while she did it.
“So did you,” I said. Come to think of it, he hadn’t smiled at me once, not even the reflexive one you usually give someone upon meeting them for the first time. “Any more feedback?”
His gaze flickered over me, and immediately I regretted asking. This was a man who’d take that kind of question literally, so I’d just opened myself up for it. “That dress looks like a bag on you. You shouldn’t be ashamed of your figure.”
I could feel my face growing hot and I really, really didn’t want to cry.
I was, unfortunately, one of those people who cried for almost any reason.
When there was a particularly gnarly paper jam in the printer at work and it was just the last thing I needed that day.
When I turned a corner in an art museum and happened upon an abstract painting with an evocative title that hit me in the gut.
I couldn’t even hear the opening notes to “Fast Car” without my throat getting tight.
“I’m not ashamed of it,” I said. “I like this dress.”
“You don’t think that when someone has an accent, it might be the first thing anyone ever asks them about? It gets old. It’s problematic, when you get down to it. And sure doesn’t make a guy feel great, like you’d rather be on a date with his brother just because his accent’s stronger.”
“I wish I was on a date with your brother,” I said. Anything had to be better than this.
“Eamonn’s a waste,” he said. “And even he wouldn’t waste his time. He’s also too young for you.”
We just stared at each other then, like we’d both suddenly realized how mean the last five minutes had gotten out of nowhere.
No, that wasn’t it. He’d gotten mean but I doubted he saw himself that way.
Meanwhile, I was torn between wanting to apologize for that one jab about dating his brother and wanting to say, Actually, I’m not sorry if I do insult you.
I was also mentally sorting through the few messages we’d exchanged before agreeing to meet up, trying to figure out if I should’ve been able to guess that Niall with the green grass picture would be this much of an asshole.
His responses had been delayed sometimes, even when we’d just been going back and forth a few seconds before.
I’d told myself it could be organic—people had lives!
They got pulled away from their phones!—but I’d suspected he was playing games.
But even that hadn’t struck me as too big a red flag.
It seemed like everyone played games. Maybe my only problem was that I wasn’t better at them myself.
The server approached the table with steaming plates then, putting one in front of each of us. “Two panang curries,” she said. “Need anything else?”
I knew the question was just about refills, extra napkins, something on the side, but still it reminded me that whatever it was I needed, this date was the last place I was going to get it.
The sad part was that I wanted to walk out but knew I was going to stay, because if nothing else I was starving and the food was hot and in front of me.
If I ate fast, we’d barely have to talk.
But we were only unwrapping our silverware when Niall said, “That was a compliment to your figure earlier, you know.”
If I had to hear this man say your figure one more time, I might never have an appetite again. “Thank you,” I said, knowing that if he didn’t like self-deprecating humor he really wouldn’t like my sarcasm, but also that he hadn’t seemed to clock it thus far.
“I didn’t want you to get the wrong idea.”
The curry was so bland it was almost a culinary feat. It should be studied, how to take a savory meal and somehow strip it of all its distinctive flavors.
“At this point, Niall,” I said, loading up another forkful of the underwhelming food, “I’m not looking to have any ideas at all.”