“Yeah, you know, when two people decide they want to get to know each other better over dinner ordrinks. . .”
I rolled my eyes as I zipped up my wallet. “Men mightthinkthey love bitches, but eventually that wears off. It did forNeal.”
“You’re wrong, and I would know—I am one, and I date themexclusively.”
“A man or abitch?”
“Both,” he said. “And Neal might’ve left you for one, but seeing as he came crawling back to you soon after, he obviously couldn’t keep up withher.”
That was all I needed right now, to be reminded of my final conversation with my ex. I kept the memory at bay as I said, “I think you just proved mypoint.”
He sighed. “I’m just saying, before Neal, you made your presence known. Now, it’s like you feel guilty taking up space. I don’t get how you can be so fierce at work and the opposite in your personallife.”
Was it that bad? I was a gainfully employed dog mom, a Celtophile easily regaled with tales of Ireland over card games with my grandad, and a thirty-year-old spinster in training who’d been on exactly zero dates in sixmonths. . .
I could almost get away with telling Luciano I was happy to grow old with just my work and my dog, but he knew me inside out. We’d bonded over juice boxes and a mutual hate for our given names—school was that much more laborious writingGeorginaorLucianoin cursive on every single paper or correcting the pronunciation of classmates and teachersalike.
“Now get out of the way,” Luciano said, brushing a lock of black hair from his forehead. “I have customers toserve.”
“Oh, sorry,” I said, hurrying over to the pick-upcounter.
I took out some index cards and reviewed my upcoming presentation, quizzing myself on statistics as people filtered in and out of the café. My boss had taught me to practice public speaking surrounded by distractions. That way, nothing could take me out of the zone come game time. I’d pulled together this morning’s presentation in only five days, yet I had the numbers down to an art. In a way, itwasan art, compiling data in a digestible way that wouldn’t make enemies out of the team I was about to join—or invade, depending on how they looked atit.
“Mocha latte,” Luciano’s coworker called out and set my drink on thebar.
I tucked the notecards under my arm and went to take the drink just as the woman next to me picked itup.
“Oh, I think that’s mine,” I said as she started to turnaway.
“Mocha latte?” She looked over her shoulder at the barista, who nodded. “That’s what Iordered.”
“Me too,” Isaid.
She checked the cup. “This saysGeorge.”
“Yes, that’s me,” Isaid.
“George is a man’s name. There are no men on this side of thecounter.”
“I know, but . . .” I sighed with frustration. “You were actually behind me inline.”
“Impossible,” she said, finally turning to me. “I didn’t even wait in line. I walked right up to thecounter.”
I looked to Luciano, five feet away, for help. With one word, he could fix this for me, but instead he hummed Britney Spears’ “Stronger” to himself and pretended not to hear us. “I mean that you came in after me,” I clarified. “I sawyou.”
“You saw me comein?”
“Yes.” At least, I was fairly certain I had. I’d looked up from my notes, silently quizzing myself when she’d walked in. Unless it’d been another blonde woman tall enough to wear flats with a power suit. “Ithink—”
“I don’t have time for this. My name’s Joan, that’s close to George, so it must be mine,” she said in one long breath and walked away with mydrink.
But my name was closer.Make my presence known. I knew what Luciano was thinking. Now,threepeople had cut me in line before nine in the morning, and that was especially bad today of all days when I needed to be onpoint.
As she exited the café, Luciano placed a new drink on the counter. “Skinny mochalatte.”
“Skinny? Are you kidding?” I made a face. “Does it at least have two-percentmilk?”
“Non-fat.”
