“Doesn’t explain the attire.” He gestures to my outfit, a dress shirt and pants. “You’re not exactly the fancy type.”
“Fuck you, I can dress nicely.” On my own? Probably not. The only times I’ve dressed nicely, I’ve had a stylist’s help.
The best I can do is a dress shirt that I borrowed from Vinny’s closet and dress pants from the dinner I attended for my college program a couple of weeks ago. I own nice clothes, but the restaurant that I’m headed towards has a fancier dress code.
“Sure.”
I roll my eyes. “Gonna do anything while I’m out?”
“Spending the night at Ali’s place,” he answers, taking a sip from a can of ginger ale.
“Cool, have fun.”
My best friend’s eyes linger on me a little longer as I grab the small container of fish food and feed Nemo before grabbing my keys. Before I can reach for the door, Vinny’s question stops me in my tracks.
“By the way, do you know why Carly’s been acting distant?”
My feet freeze to the ground. Stuck, like the soles were glued to the wood floors because of some strategically placed super glue.
“Why are you asking me?” My hand absentmindedly runs through my hair, which took me a while to fix, but that’s the least of my worries.
He shrugs, probably not so passionate about the topic, but asking because it’s his girl’s best friend. “You hang out with her more than I do, so I thought you would know.”
I shake my head, allowing the lie to slip past like butter. “Not a clue.”
What a lie that is. I know damn well Carly’s more distant mood as of late is because of me, and how I acted. Setting boundaries isn’t my strong suit, and I wasn’t even trying with her.
Carly caught me by surprise that night. I was about to take her initial reaction—hiding in her room—as rejection until she kissed me again.
And what did I do? I freaked out and walked away.
“Well, let Ali know when you find out, because she’s a little worried about Carly.”
I nod and head out of the apartment, towards my fairly old car, and drive towards the restaurant. Because my father picked a restaurant not far from downtown, I arrive at a parking structure close by in minutes, which equates to about half an hour on a Friday evening in Los Angeles.
The drive feels too short, but maybe it’s my nerves acting up.
I tap my fingers on the steering wheel in front of me, both terrified to do this and anxious to get it over with. My first instinct is to text my father, starting with an apology.
Hey, sorry, but something came up and I can’t make it. We’ll plan another time!
But never follow up.
This is fucking ridiculous! I’m not about to back down at dinner because I’m a coward. First of all, anyone who can handle stingrays and not die Steven Irwin style is not a coward (may he rest in peace).
Okay, considering the Carly situation, maybe Iama bit of a coward.
Calm down, it’s just an apology dinner with Dad. Just Dad.
Yeah, I can handle this. It’s not like Dad’s an axe murderer, anyway. Granted, he’s a surgeon, but he doesn’t have a vendetta of sorts.
I exit the car and head towards the dimly lit restaurant. Soft jazz music flows into my ears, and I already feel out of place. The ambiance is reminiscent of a club straight out ofThe Great Gatsby, from a movie that I remember watching at a premiere I attended long ago.
What’s even worse is that Dad’s seated at a booth on the other end of the area. As I approach, I notice another person occupying the seat to his right, with dark hair touching hershoulder, in loose waves, and sipping out of a glass of water without ice.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” I grumble under my breath.
This dinner was a setup.
