“Hey,” he says, still staring at his phone. “Sorry. Work emergency.”
“Is the station on fire?” I joke, and he shakes his head like I’m serious. I decide silence is safer, and it’s another five minutes before he starts the engine and pulls from the curb.
“Kaia said you like Japanese food?” he says, cutting off a hatchback to force his way into the left lane.
“Love it,” I perk up a bit, pretending not to be terrified by his aggressive driving and the lack of music in the cab.
“So you've been to Japan?” he asks, driving through the next red light as it turns.
“No, never. I wish,” I say, and he scowls. He’s cute enough, with brown hair that’s cut close to his scalp and a light scruff around his jaw. His brows are heavy, and his lips have yet to leave the thin line they’re in.
“So you likewesternJapanese food,” he says in a tone, and finally looks over at me.
“There’s a place outside the city, in one of the smaller towns. A family moved from Japan—”
“Right,” he cuts me off. “Well, I got us a spot at that Indian restaurant over off Nineteenth Street.”
“Oh, I like Indian too,” I say, unsure why he even brought up the Japanese food topic if that isn’t what we’re doing, but I try to go with the flow. The parking lot is busy when he pulls in, and he parks his truck over the line, taking up two spaces, causing me to sigh as he slams his door closed. He’s halfway to the door before he remembers I exist and slows, because half of me expected him to open my side for me.
“Kaia didn’t say you were tall,” he says, his eyes raking down me like I’m a display. I should have seen that coming, because why would Kaia care, and why should he? But it’s always an issue. His brow furrows again.
If you continue to stare at me like an animal in a zoo, I will key your truck in front of you.
“Sorry?” I say instead, and he shrugs but opens the restaurant door for me. Inside is just as busy as the parking lot. The table is so small my knees wedge under it, and there’s dried gum stuck beneath the edge. Miles putshis phone on the table, screen up, and it lights up, showing about thirteen messages all coming through as the waitress asks what we’d like to drink.
“I’ll have a beer, and she’ll take a glass of red,” he says before I can open my mouth.
Wine… How am I supposed to drink Satan's piss with a straight face?
He does the same thing when she comes back around to take our food order, and I’m two minutes from telling him that my entire family has died in a freak tsunami just to get away from him. I sip on the disgusting wine, just trying to get some liquor in my body, and watch as he rechecks his phone.
“So you work with Kaia?” I ask him, and he nods. “Have you always worked with her, or are you a new transfer?”
“New,” he says quickly. “You teach… drawing?” he asks.
“High school art.” I correct him and swallow down the entire rest of the glass in one gulp. He looks at the glass when I set it down on the table and smirks.
Shit, now you think I want to get drunk and have sex with you.
“Art was always my least favorite subject; I never really saw the point of it,” he confesses, and I’m not surprised.
“What was your favorite?”
“Gym,” he says quickly. “Played just about every sport I could,” he says.
“I play rugby,” I say.
“Oh yeah—fake football, with Kaia right?”Yes, with Kaia. Why don’t you ask her out on a date so I can watch her throat punch you?
“It’s not football,” I try to keep my cool, but dealing with a guy like this would require about ten more vodka shots and a lobotomy.
“You tackle and score touchdowns. It’s the same thing, only not as cool,” Miles scoffs.
“Tries,” I correct, and he narrows his eyes at me. “Do you have any hobbies now?” I ask in a pathetic attempt to keep the conversation going. The only way to get him to talk is to talk about him. And this is exactly how the rest of the date goes: if he does ask me a question, he ignores theanswer for his phone. I learned he likes travelling but only to all-inclusive resorts on singles packages, and he doesn’t listen to music because it’s distracting.Right, because God forbid something steals his attention from his phone.
At the end of the night, I pay for my meal,andthe wine I never ordered before we end up back in the parking lot.
“Tonight was nice, but this isn’t going anywhere,” he says, still staring at his phone.
