Maybe it's the day I've had. Perhaps it's the disappointment and embarrassment from being left high and dry by her. It's possible I'm simply out of my mind.
But I raise a hand. Middle finger stiff and punching the air.
Cecily's eyes squint to slits. Her head shakes back-and-forth, a tiny motion. It's the perfect opportunity for her to draw her thumb across her throat, but she doesn't take it.
I have just made myself an enemy. The first one in my life, to my knowledge.
The hostess directs Paisley to a seat wrapped in white silk ribbon. Gold confetti around the table catches the overhead light, glittering. Klein takes the seat beside Paisley, his equally festooned. Cecily settles across from Paisley, and I make my way down to the end of the table, hoping to hide on the corner and do my least favorite activity, make friends with strangers who have already laughed at my expense.
"Dom," Klein says loudly. "Over here." He points at the seat across from him.
Beside Cecily.
I pause, thinking for a moment about pretending I didn't hear him. But he points again, more forcefully this time, and indicates the seat with his chin.
I exhale a slow breath nobody can hear because of the music playing. My hesitation has gone on too long, confusion tugging at Klein's eyebrows.
I don't have much of a choice. Not without causing a scene, and I think I've done enough to draw attention to myself this evening.
I start for my cousin. The closer I get, the more I see, taste, and smell the hatred emanating from Cecily. Hopefully she doesn't order the steak. I don't trust her with a knife.
"Why are you being weird?" Klein asks as I pull out my seat.
"I'm not being weird," I argue.
"You are," Paisley confirms enthusiastically, flicking a piece of confetti at me.
I sit down. Haul my seat in closer to the table. Smack Cecily's ankle bone with the chair leg.
She grunts in pain, reaching down to rub her ankle. It was an accident, I swear, and I'd apologize, but the way she's refusing to acknowledge it happened keeps my apology hovering in my throat.
Klein's gaze darts back-and-forth between me and Cecily. His brain is doing somersaults, cataloging our body posture and microfacial expressions. The guy is always taking inventory of people. Maybe he should retire from authoring and become a detective.
If I don't say something to Cecily in the next three and a half seconds, Klein is going to start asking questions.
I dip my head sideways, closer to Cecily, and open my mouth to speak. But just as I do, the server walks up and begins his spiel, and I'm awash with gratitude for the delay. Never in my life have I been so interested in the preparation of a whole branzino.
He starts the drink order with Paisley, moving on to Klein. When he asks me what I'd like to drink, I look left, to the human embodiment of the wordloathing, and say the only drink that comes to mind. Just to mess with her. "A blueberry mojito, please."
Cecily's gaze sharpens. So worth it.
"And for you?" the server asks her.
"A Ballbuster," she says, lips forming the word innocently. It's the tiny, nearly imperceptible shake of her head that gives away the attitude lying beneath.
"That's not a drink," I grit, matching Cecily's attitude.
She leans closer to me. A lock of her long brown hair dips forward, tickling my forearm. She smells like she did that afternoon at Obstinate Daughter, like bourbon vanilla andsomething else, a scent I'm not familiar with. "Pretty sure it is a drink," she snaps, tapping the menu with intensity.
Ballbuster. Right there on the drink menu.
But I'll be damned if I acknowledge it out loud.
I stare down at her.
She glares up at me. We have a hateful conversation with our eyes.
Thanks for taking off in the middle of our date.
