Dr. Dick: Do you want the ride or not? I’m sure you could take the train if you are hellbent on winning this month’s round.
Devon: Yes. Fine. I’ll let you drive me. Out of the goodness of my heart. Pick me up at noon at Mer’s.
And Jeff, don’t use the line “Do you want a ride or not?” during your escort interview. Women want their gigolos to be subtle and loquacious.
Dr. Dick: Devon, I’d never need to use that line. I know damn well when a woman wants a ride. And I can think of much better things to do with my tongue than be loquacious…
Devon:
Dr. Dick: See you tomorrow at twelve.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Devon
Lesson 27: Never get in the car with a man who knows Bonnie Tyler lyrics.
I’m standing on the corner of Broad and Passyunk with my tiny capsule wheelie suitcase that Tara gave me specifically for the purpose of visiting her. The lunch hour rush is flooding the sidewalks as people dressed in lawyerly suits or fabulous miniskirts and booties bob and weave into the dozens of delis and steak joints that line this part of town. I’m getting a bit itchy standing here in the crowd, and I’m unsure if it’s the waves of strangers jostling my nerves or the impending hours stuck in a tiny robot car with the good doctor.
Jeff’s hybrid pulls in front of the fire hydrant near where I’m standing and he hops out, leaving the door open, then rounds the front of the car and gives me a smile as he reaches for mysuitcase. I try to focus on the car door, but it’s impossible not to glance up at that cursed dimple.
“This is your suitcase? It’s the size of a make-up bag,” he says, wheeling it toward the trunk.
“Tara insists on traveling light,” I tell him. “You really shouldn’t leave your door open like that on Broad. You’re gonna end up driving a dune buggy.”
He stares at me over the roof of his car. His eyes are catching the afternoon sun, glistening with their usual amusement.
I’ve realized the nerves are not the crowd of people as I glance into his car. It’s a tight space and?—
“Are you nervous?” he asks, while I duck out of sight and slide into the passenger seat.
I let out a laugh, but it comes out more hysterical than aloof.
“Why would I be nervous?” I ask, studying the window to my right.
“That’s exactly what I was wondering, but you’re all fidgety and you won’t look at me.”
I point through the windshield.
“Typically, when you drive you need to look at the road and not the passenger?—”
“We are in park.”
A car blares its horn and Jeff is forced to shift us out of park and into the flow of traffic. Thank goodness for crazy city drivers. I can tell already by the way his knuckles brush my thigh when he releases the gear shift that he’s not going to let me ignore what happened last weekend.
He’s going to torture me. And if I must endure him, by Thor, he must endure me.
I scoot to the edge of the seat so I am one with the door and reach for the radio knowing full well that he’s going to slap my hand away like he did the last time I messed with his man music on the way to CHOP. But he just lets me fish throughthe stations. I reprogram his favorite stations and he glances sidelong at my hand but doesn’t say a word. I narrow my eyes at the side of his face and settle on the most obnoxious love ballad I can find. “Total Eclipse of the Heart.”
My juvenile mutiny backfires, because Jeff’s mouth tugs up into that crooked grin and he starts to sing along. I roll my eyes and settle back in my chair, trying not to enjoy Jeff crooning along with Bonnie Tyler.
I think the safest angle here is to pretend to nap. I put my head onto my arm against the side door and I hear the lock press. Even while he’s torturing me, he has the foresight to lock the door so I don’t fall out of his car. It’s a little insane, but sweet.
Somewhere between Jeff’s rendition of Celine Dion’s “It’s All Coming Back to Me Now” and my anxiety/excitement about meeting my future brother-in-law, I pass out with my forehead pressed firmly against the window.
I wake up to the sound of my skull against the glass.
“Sorry,” Jeff says, wincing as I try to get my bearings.
