“You’d probably say panini but technically that’s the plural of the word panino, so one panini sandwich is a panino.”
“Oh. Okay,” she says and when she takes another drink her eyes flit around behind me.
“Have you ever done a triathlon?” I ask, sounding as desperate as I feel to save our conversation, while at the same time questioning why I feel this need.
“Err, no.” Daisy looks horrified at even the suggestion.
I smile at her, hoping what my mamma has told me is my best feature can help her find her sense of humour. “I’m training for one right now. Well, I just started training.”
“You’re doing a triathlon?”
“Yes, in early October.”
She leans forward and I take that as a good sign. “Why?”
“Because I want to get fit, and I like a challenge.” I consider telling her about my ADHD but it doesn’t feel like the right time. It doesn’t feel like it would make this conversation improve in any way shape or form.
It was easy to tell Giles about it though. Very easy.
“A friend of mine is helping me train. We go to the gym three times a week and run at the weekend. I’m meeting him to do six kilometres in Hyde Park again tomorrow.”
“I did a five-kilometre race once,” she says and I feel relief that she’s a little bit more engaged, but not excitement, not pleasure. “But I lost a toenail three days afterwards so never ran again. I do pilates now. And walk to and from work.”
“Giles says walking is one of the best ways to exercise,” I say without realising.
“Who's Giles?”
“Oh, he’s my friend I’m training with. He’s a total muscle head. Like stacked. But he’s the nicest guy with it. He doesn’t take himself too seriously.”
“Okay.” Daisy takes another sip from her drink, her eyes travelling again. She’s nearly finished that glass. I should offer to get her another soon, but… But I don’t really want to.
“It’s been really helpful to have someone to train with,” I continue. “To stay motivated. And he took me to this really swanky sports clothes shop and helped me pick out some gear so I don’t look a total idiot working out.”
“Hmm.” She offers me a weak smile.
“That’s why I won’t drink anymore after this.” I lift my bottle up. “I can’t imagine what it would be like to run hungover. I can barely do it on a good day.” I cough. “Do you want another drink?”
She looks at her glass and then at her watch. She doesn’t even try to make it appear subtle. I feel my breath hitch as my thoughts quickly go to the many things I can do if this date ends and my evening becomes free. I can eat dinner with Mamma. I can play some video games and send Kris silly memes I find on the Internet. I can maybe watch some gay porn to find out what the fuck has been going on with me the last few days. But then her mouth stretches into a wide grin, a grin that I’m pretty sure is as far from genuine as possible, and she says, “Sure, one more can’t hurt.”
My heart sinks. And it shouldn’t. I should be pleased. Maybe she’s not totally uninterested. Maybe she just needs to warm up. Maybe she likes the idea of me doing a triathlon, or maybe she doesn’t really look down on me for working in a café.
“Well, I’ll just go and get them then.” I stand and swig back the last of my beer. Once it’s gone I realise that that was my last taste of alcohol for the night, and I’m now going to have to try and think up scintillating conversation topics while drinking a lemonade. My heart sinks further.
It doesn’t take long to get served at the bar inside, considering nearly everyone is enjoying the warm weather on the terrace. As the server tends to my order, I pull my phone out of my pocket. My eyebrows shoot up in surprise when I see a message from Giles, sent not ten minutes ago.
I type back quickly.
A slow smile curls my lips when I see the three dots that tell me he’s typing a response immediately.
I laugh out loud.
I type before I realise how this may put us on dangerous ground, talking about showers.
Giles texts back and that halts my thoughts and my breath. Is he giving me a way out with that comment, or a wayin?
