Chapter 8
Roni
I'm seriously regretting my decision. What was supposed to be a straightforward meet-up for drinks and a bite to eat is turning into something else entirely, and I can already sense his intentions stretching far beyond anything I’m comfortable with.
I thought my consistent lack of response to his comments on my posts and the numerous times I turned down his invitations to meet in person would have sent a clear signal. But, well, it seems he’s quite dense.
I'll give him some points for not suggesting coffee this time.
He must have finally realized sitting in a café after a long day at work doesn't appeal to me at all.
So, here we are. At a cozy Mexican restaurant.
Where the air is filled with the aroma of sizzling peppers, onions, seasoning and my favorite, tequila.
I ordered a plate of nachos, their cheese bubbling temptingly, and a house margarita, the glass rim crusted with salt.
Brad, sitting across from me, seems to notice my distant expression.
Eventually, he grows tired of it and speaks up.
“Hey, what's up?”
But I don't feel like spilling my thoughts. Instead, I offer the standard reply, “I'm fine.” It's a response I've heard countless other girls use in similar situations. And it's the truth. I am fine. Perhaps even a touch better than fine. I just don't want to be here with him.
My thoughts keep drifting to the captivating man who comes to my coffee shop every morning.
He has an air of quiet confidence. His slight grey streaks adding to his allure, with a physique suggesting strength and solidity.
I find myself daydreaming about him, wondering if tomorrow morning, he'll flash his signature charming smile as he picks up—
I take a sip of my margarita, the salt stinging a tiny cut I didn’t know I have inside my lip.
Brad's mouth moves. Something about quarterly projections and corner offices.
But all I hear is “give me something bold and strong, like you” in a low timbre which has my fingers fumbling with the coffee filters this week.
I trace the condensation on my glass, drawing the shape of those crow's feet that appear when he checks his watch, then glances up with eyes so blue they'd make the summer sky jealous.
My phone buzzes, and I realize I could make an excuse.
I could text Chloe, wait for her call, then bolt for the door.
Instead, I picture tomorrow. Him parking his SUV and walking over with his well-aged swagger in a professionally tailored suit.
The way he'll run his hand through his salt-and-pepper hair before he’ll speak.
For now, I drain my glass and signal for another.
I've known Brad for years. Ever since we were freshmen in college, and it was clear from the start what he wanted. He’s always sought something more, like a moth drawn to a flame or a fly to dogshit.
I’m not sure if I share any responsibility for his persistence.
Maybe I should have spelled it out in neon letters.
Maybe I should have bluntly said, “Brad, it’s never going to happen. ”
He's not unattractive. His looks have nothing to do with it. But he’s clingy as hell.
His desperation. It sets off the ick in my blood.
It’s the way he hangs on every word I say as if each one is a lifeline.
The way he erupts into laughter over a mundane joke.
Or how his phone buzzes with a new message within moments of me posting anything. It’s suffocating.
I’m not saying I wouldn’t enjoy a guy being captivated by me. Under the right circumstances, I’d relish being the center of someone’s world. But not with Brad. His energy has always been a warning sign, flashing “NO” in the back of my mind.
Then there’s Phoenix. He finally gave me his name.
He carries a quiet confidence that draws people in like warmth in winter.
He’s so confident. He never tries to get me to like him.
I just—do. When he waits for his coffee at the window, he stands there, relaxed and poised, as if the world is in perfect order.
His eyes follow each deliberate movement I make while preparing his drink, as though he's savoring the moment without needing to say a word. There’s something undeniably magnetic about a man who doesn’t feel compelled to perform.
Who is comfortable just being in the moment.
“So anyway,” Brad interrupts, his voice breaking through the fantasy of blue eyes and coffee. “I was thinking maybe we could make this a regular thing? Maybe weekly?”
My margarita glass freezes halfway to my lips. The sting I’ll feel from the salted rim suddenly looks inviting. “Oh, um...” The tequila burns a path down my throat while my brain scrambles. “Let's see how tonight goes first.”
His eyes light up. My shoulders tense. The ceiling fan above us makes one complete rotation, then another.
He grins, cheese stretching between his open mouth and the nacho clutched between his fingers. I tap my foot under the table. One-one thousand, two-one thousand, three-one thousand.
The check arrives. His hand darts out like a snake striking, slapping mine away. “I got this,” he says, already pulling out his wallet. I reach for my purse anyway.
“Please, let me pay my half,” I say, fishing out some of my tips. His smile tightens at the corners.
“Actually,” he says, scooting his chair around the table, until I can smell the jalapenos on his breath, “I thought maybe we could continue this somewhere more... private.” He slides closer, his knee pressing against mine under the table.
“I've got some time if you want to come back with me to my place.” He twirls his empty margarita glass between his fingers.
“Reminisce on the years which have gone by since we last really hung out.”
My stomach knots. I shift my leg away, breaking contact. “No thank you,” I say, smoothing my napkin. “I'm not up for it. I just want to go home.”
What flickers through my mind is my bedroom. The drawer where I keep my vibrator. The way Phoenix's eyes crinkled yesterday morning when I handed him his coffee.
“What? Why?” Brad’s smile stays fixed but his eyes harden, pupils shrinking to pinpoints.
“Look, I think you're great, but—”
“But what?” The tendons in his neck tighten, his voice dropping half an octave. He leans forward, knuckles whitening around his glass. “I thought we were having a good time.”
Were we? My mind has been adrift since we sat down. “I just don't see us that way, Brad. I never have,” I admit, trying to sound gentle but firm.
He leans back in his chair, frustration etched across his features. “I have been so patient with you, Roni. I have put all the time and effort, I possibly can, into you, little bunny.”
Little bunny? The nickname slithers under my skin, making me cringe. I feel a wave of nausea rise, but I manage to keep it at bay. My cheeks ache as I plaster on a smile that feels more like a grimace, hoping it doesn't betray my discomfort.
“Please don't call me that,” I reply, my voice steady despite the tension. “And I'm sorry if I gave you the wrong impression, but I've never asked you to make an effort with me.”
His face shifts, eyes narrowing as his brow furrows into a stormy expression. “So what was this then? Just stringing me along for a free meal?” His words are sharp, laced with accusation.
I suppress a chuckle, knowing it would only escalate the situation. “I literally just offered to pay for my half,” I remind him, gesturing to the untouched bills sitting between us.
“That's not the point!” he exclaims, loud enough to draw curious glances from a couple at the next table. “I've been there for you for years. I've liked all your posts. I've messaged you. I've been waiting for you to finally see what's right in front of you.”
The entitlement in his voice feels like a sudden crack of thunder, jolting something inside me, and I can't ignore it any longer.
“I'm sorry, Brad, but I need to leave. I'm sorry if I hurt you.” My voice wavers, but I don't plan on sticking around for a response.
My hands tremble as I push myself away from the table, my chair scraping harshly against the floor.
I need to escape. To breathe. I head toward the rear exit leading down to the dimly lit parking garage.
My heart pounds in my chest, and my thoughts are a chaotic whirl.
I can't do this anymore. I walk briskly, my footsteps echoing as I make a beeline for the back door and descend the narrow, concrete stairs.
But just as I'm about to push through the heavy metal exit door, his hands clamp down on my shoulders, spinning me around abruptly. The shock makes my heart leap into my throat. “Oh my God! Brad, what are you doing?” I screech, my voice rising in panic.
“No,” he growls, his eyes dark and unyielding.
“No fucking way. You don't just abandon me after this night out we've had.
I've been chasing you for years. You know how much I want you, and you've let it happen. Look at the way you dress for me. Always in something highlighting your legs and curves. And you’ve been waving those tits in my face since college. What was I supposed to think? Huh? You owe me.”
I stare at him in disbelief, a cold realization settling in.
Is this guy for real? He can't be serious.
I don't owe him anything. Why is it every time I find someone cute or consider a fleeting connection, they're indifferent, but this one guy, who I can't even imagine pretending to kiss, has the audacity to claim I owe him?
His grip pulls down on my arms with a force sending a jolt of panic racing through me, like ice-cold water numbing my skin.
The vast emptiness of the parking garage amplifies every sound, our voices echoing off the concrete walls like a sinister symphony.
I attempt to wrench myself free, twisting my body, but his fingers dig mercilessly into my flesh, holding me captive.
“Let go of me right now,” I command, trying to inject authority into my voice despite the tremor I feel inside. “This is insane, Brad. You're scaring me.”
“Good,” he replies, his face contorted into a fierce mask of anger and something unrecognizable. “Maybe you should be scared. Maybe that's what it takes to get through to you.”
“Brad, don’t do this,” I plead, desperation creeping into my tone.
“Fuck you, Roni.” His retort is sharp and venomous as he maintains his iron grip on my arms, squeezing with uncomfortable intensity.
“After everything I’ve been through with you, the least you could do is give me a shot.
But no, of course not. Girls like you are always fucking stuck up and full of themselves, thinking they’re God’s fucking gift to men.
Decent guys like me never get a chance with anyone because you’re all too fucking good for me.
Well, that’s fucking bullshit. You’re fucking coming with me and that’s the end of it. ”
The dim light overhead casts long shadows, turning the scene into a surreal nightmare, while the air grows thick with tension and unspoken threats.
His words cut deep, their bitterness resounding around us.
And all I can focus on is the relentless pressure of his hands and the overwhelming need to break free.