“Why’s that?”
He puts his elbows right on the table and leans forward. “I think you’re going to let me get to know you.”
I think about the blank piece of paper in my bag.
“You never told me why you were so late.”
“My car broke down,” he says.
“That’s it? That’s not even a real thing.”
“Cars breaking down? I can assure you it happens all the time.”
“Like a flat tire?”
“Like the carburetor.”
“I don’t know what that is.”
All of a sudden Jake looks uncomfortable, and I wonder if I’m pushing it, treading somewhere I shouldn’t. The car is clearly an excuse. There is a familiarity I feel, with the information I have, that maybe isn’t appropriate yet. This is only a first date.
I’ve had to watch that in the past. I know what someone will mean to me before they do, before I should. Who cares about his car anyway?
“It doesn’t matter,” I say. “At least you drive. I feel like everyone in LA Ubers now. I like the idea, but it makes me too carsick.”
Jake smiles lightly. “You could sit up front.”
“I’m not a big fan of small talk.”
“Me either,” he says. “But then I end up being rude and talking on my phone in the back seat.”
“I find that hard to believe.”
As soon as I say it, my cell phone starts to vibrate on the table. I slip it off and flip it into my bag, but I can see Hugo is calling. Is it nine already? Two hours have gone by quickly.
“I’ll get the check,” Jake says.
“No worries,” I tell him. “It’s my best friend. He’s just calling to see how tonight went.”
Jake responds as he flags down a waiter. “What are you going to tell him?”
I wait until he’s turned back to me to answer. “Solid prospect. Has a shoe fetish. Worth further evaluation.”
He blinks at me slowly, and I feel something unhook in me, like a necklace falling. For such a comfortable night, it’s not such a comfortable feeling.
“I’m glad Kendra set us up,” he says. “I don’t meet a lot of women who seem to have the sense of self you do.”
“I feel like that’s a compliment to me but an insult to my gender.”
“Not at all,” Jake says. He is so sincere it’s almost shocking. “I just don’t meet a lot of women.”
I choke back a laugh as the waiter hands us the check. Jake reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a card. I make a move to take out my wallet, and Jake puts a hand over mine, stopping me.
“Please,” he says. “My treat.”
I think about making a joke, usually I would. Something about the exchange of my company. But instead I thank him.
Jake walks me to my car—a 2012 silver Audi I affectionately call Sullivan. I got him off an actress who had a long-running Fox sitcom and then promptly moved back to Canada when it was canceled.
