“I don’t sell anything,” a frustrated Dylan retorts, but Morgan cuts him off.
“I’ll takeLthroughV. Wait!” He waves the fork, flinging some flaky pie crust into Dylan’s eggs. “Just give meG.”
My date watches in silent disgust as Morgan polishes off what’s left of my cheeseburger. I can’t remember if it was any good or not, I’ve been so flustered.
“Needs pickles,” Morgan muses.
Dylan exhales through his nose. “It’s getting a little crowded in here.”
“I agree.” Morgan tries to stab Dylan’s last piece of bacon with his fork, but Dylan slides his plate out of the way. “Shall we take this show on the road?”
“Zelda, I think I’m going to call it a night.” Dylan stands up. “This was…” He can’t come up with a suitable adjective and simply shakes his head. “Good night.”
Oh no. “I’m so sorry.” I try to get up, too, but Morgan’s got me blocked in. “Maybe another time?”
Dylan’s grim face saysDon’t count on it.
Morgan smiles up at him. “You’ve got the check, right? I didn’t bring any money.”
Dylan leaves swiftly, hissing between his teeth. I’ve botched it. I’ve completely botched it. Here’s a handsome, presumablygood man who was legitimately interested in me, and I ruined my chances by indulging—or at least not adequately discouraging—another man who has admitted to my face that he tried to trick me into liking him, for abominably selfish reasons.
Something is clearly wrong with me.
My jaws fuse together as Morgan leisurely finishes my coffee, humming along to the radio. When he finally meets my eyes again, he lowers the napkin he’d been dabbing his mouth with. “Are you going to eat the rest of your fries?”
I pinch the skin of his forearm between my fingers, then give it a sharp twist.
“Ow!” he yelps, jumping. “What was that for?”
“What was that for?You ruined my date!”
“I don’t know why you’re so upset. I think we all really hit it off. Do you think he’ll text us later?”
I duck under the table, emerging on the opposite side of the booth. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
For a moment, his façade suspends, and I see a different emotion pass behind his eyes. Guilt. It looks as if he’s about to apologize, but when he opens his mouth, what comes out is: “My latest theory on waravers is that the waning gibbous moon gives them a telepathic energy field that they use to communicate with clouds. What do you think?”
I stare at him.
He stares back.
I’m livid with both of us. “I have no words for you right now.”
“Words?” he repeats. “Where we’re going, we don’t need words.”
I slap a few bills down on the table for the tip and get up. “Either you pay for dinner, or I’m going to hurt you. Emotionally. I will figure out what you love, and ruin it.”
He hands over his credit card at the counter, posture relaxed. I grab a bunch of junk for sale next to the register—a wrapped pastrami sub sandwich, which I don’t even like, a Dark Side of the Spoon mug, two swirly lollipops, a Martian keychain, a stick of gum—and I make him buy it all.
“Did you enjoy your meal?” the guy at the register asks.
“It was wonderful!” Morgan turns to smile at me, and I cross my arms, refusing to look at him. When we’re finished, I grab the bags and tear off out the door.
Morgan runs to catch up. “Hey, slow down!”
“You sabotaged my night. You are a terrible, selfish, foul little dingbat.” The heel of my right shoe catches a crack in the sidewalk. I almost go toppling over, but he yanks me back by my purse strap.
“I’m not little. If you believe what it says on my driver’s license, I’m as tall as Brooke Shields.”
