I give her a second.
She takes a sip of her water, dabs her mouth, then looks at me with an expression that is equal parts disbelief and what might generously be called amusement.
"Your sister," she repeats.
"She made an assessment. Based on available evidence. I disagreed."
"And your counter-argument is me."
"You were the most accessible option at the time."
Her mouth opens, and her eyes go wide.
"That came out wrong," I say.
"Did it?"
"You were the — I had limited options. Geographically. You live in the building."
"You are not making this better."
"I know." I pick up my wine. "I'm aware."
She looks at me for a long moment. The restaurant hums around us — conversation, silverware, a piano somewhere that I hadn’t noticed before. She has the look of a woman recalibrating her entire understanding of the last eight months.
"Areyou gay?" she asks with genuine curiosity.
"No."
"Are you sure?"
"Increasingly certain."
"Because it would be fine—"
"Jenn. I'm not gay."
"Okay." She picks up her menu. Looks at it. Sets it back down. "You're just the most bizarre man I've ever met."
"That's probably accurate."
"And you asked me out to prove a point to your sister."
"Yes."
"Using those exact words. In the gym. This morning."
"I'd prefer not to revisit that."
She almost smiles.
"For what it's worth," she says, picking up her wine, "it's the most honest thing anyone's said to me on a first date in about three years. So. Points for that."
"I don't actually know anything about you," I say. "I realized that in the car."
"I know." She leans back in her chair. "So, ask me something."
I think about Blaire in the conference room.What does she like? What does she care about? Ask her something.
