Sullivan stood. “Sorry. If it means anything, I also think she’d be an asset here, but all things being equal, I’d rather date her without an agenda.”
“Understood. You like her.”
“Yeah, I do.”
“Then do right by her. I like her too.”
23
Their schedules beingwhat they were, they landed on a Sunday matinee ofPippinas performed by Carnegie Mellon students and dinner afterward at The Grand Concourse. Ramsey was very much in favor of an early date and honest about her reasoning when Sullivan asked her.
“Less sexpectation,” she said.
“Sexpectation?”
“You know. Less expectation on our part that there’ll be sex afterward.” She frowned, genuinely concerned when he choked on the wine he was trying to swallow. “Are you all right? Do you need me to—” She made a swiping gesture with her hand as though clapping him on the back.
Sullivan shook his head, swallowed hard, and blinked back tears that gathered at the corners of his eyes. “Jeez, Ramsey,” he rasped. “You sure can pick your moments.”
She smiled. “I know. Are you sure you’re all right?”
“I may never be right again, and it will be your fault.”
“Sorry. But it’s true, isn’t it? About the sexpectation.”
“Would you stop saying that? It’s not a word.”
“Sure it is. I just said it.”
“You made it up.”
“All words are made up, Sullivan. What’s your problem? Why are we fussing about this?”
Sullivan rolled the stem of his wine glass with his fingertips. “I don’t know.”
“Are you disappointed that I don’t want to have sex later?”
This was why he didn’t dare pick up his glass and take another swallow. It was fortunate he hadn’t already spewed the red. “I don’t know. Maybe.”
Ramsey shook her head. “That’s no kind of answer. Look, Sullivan, Iwantto have sex with you again, I just don’t want it—” She stopped because his eyes had shifted up and to her left, and in the event she hadn’t noticed, he was also pointing in that direction. Out of the corner of her eye, Ramsey saw the waitress was hovering. She looked up, smiled, and said, “You’d want to have sex with him, wouldn’t you?”
Their waitress, a petite brunette with tattooed eyeliner and pillow lips, seemed to give the question serious consideration. “Sure,” she said, and then, “Have you thought about dessert?”
Without missing a beat, Ramsey ordered the key lime pie. Sullivan required a moment before he asked for the mango sorbet.
“I don’t even like mango,” he said when the waitress was out of overhearing range.
“Then why did you order it?”
“I was thinking about sleeping with that waitress and it just came out.”
Amused, Ramsey laughed. “Why, I believe you’re twitterpated,”
“With the waitress? No. With you? Quite possibly.”
“You know twitterpated means smitten, right?”
“I know.”
