This is a first date, right? I don’t remember skipping a bunch of steps. Some pretty big fucking steps. I understand wanting to make sure you’re on the same page about what you want out of your life, but I didn’t think I would be planning out the rest of my liferight now.
Over the course of what must be the longest hour ever, this man—and I use that term lightly—has laid out the next 15 years of not justourimaginary future, butmyfuture. I will be sellingCirqueto be a stay at homesomething. I will be having both a boy and a girl—a boy first, of course. And obviously, I will need to make my wardrobe more suitable for society and learn how to bake.
I would love to say that I’ve had moments of peace while he has his mouth full of steak, but he chews loud enough to let the kitchen staff know he’s taken another massive bite. As if I neededanotherreason to hate him.
With every word that’s come out of his mouth, since themoment I climbed into his car, my pussy has gotten drier and drier. I think if he keeps talking, he could do some serious long-term damage.
I drop my fork on the plate, making a loud clatter that finally gets Sean to look up from his steak, cooked well-done just in case I didn’t know for sure he was a little bitch. The fact that this asshole has been basically talking about me to his overcooked steak while making demands about what I will do withmyclub is just the icing on the cake. A cake, apparently, that I’m supposed to know how to make.
“I won’t be doing that,” I say calmly, debating if I can get the waitress’s attention discreetly enough to ask for the check.
Unfortunately for me, after the second time he snapped his fingers to demand a fresh cocktail, she decided to make herself scarce. I should have begged her to take me with her. Or to poison drink number three, dealer’s choice.
This was such a stupid idea. It had seemed like a good idea until the date started. I thought it was sweet that he wanted to come pick me up instead of meeting me at the restaurant. I had this image in my head: he would show up with flowers, open the car door for me, and make the little butterflies dance around my stomach.
No quickening of my heartbeat, or sweaty palms. Certainly, no butterflies. The little fuckers are dead at this point, I’m convinced.
Did he pick me up? No, of course not. He sent a car to pick me up that he wasn’t even in. Instead, I was left with a very nice driver named Kurt, who played country music the entire drive and made me want to launch myself out the back door into oncoming traffic. It’s not Kurt’s fault though—hewasn’t my date. Was my date waiting at the restaurant door for me? Sure wasn’t. He was already sitting at the table, with his cell phone glued to one ear, at least one drink deep that made his languid objectification of my body even more obvious as the maître descorted me to the table. The only benefit was that his lack of manners and desire to greet me when I approached the table meant I didn’t have to let him touch me in a hug or kiss on the cheek.
“Well, of course I don’t expectyouto do it,” he laughs, the condescension dripping off his words. It feels like getting a pat on the head for a niceeffort. “A team of my lawyers would handle it,” he mutters, already back to talking to his steak.
At leasthecan eat. I, on the other hand, set my fork and knife down shortly after the plate was set before me. I can barely stomach this conversation, let alone a full meal. Unfortunate since this is one of my favorite restaurants, known for its innovative desserts and eclectic pairing of flavors. And now Sean has tainted it. I’ll have to start only going to places I hate for first dates.
I don’t know why I’m lying to myself. I won’t be doing this again. It was a nice reminder ofwhyI don’t do it in the first place. Sadie is going to get an earful about this later, since I’m maturely choosing to blame her.
I’m still looking around the restaurant to get the attention ofanystaff member that can run a credit card through the little machine when I suddenly feel a pressure on my hand that was resting on the table. My head stops its swiveling to slowly stare down at where Sean’s hand is resting above mine. Trapping it.
I will pay ten thousand dollars to whoever can get me cashed out and in a rideshare in the next five minutes.
There is nothing sweet or pleasant about the way he curls his fingers around mine, holding my hand as if we are the picture of a happy couple at dinner. There is no spark of desire, no ache between my legs at his touch, no shortness of breath or burn of want. Just disgust.
When Colton covered my hands, I felt desired andsafe. This doesn’t feel safe. This feels like someone trying to snuff out an ember before it blazes.
“I’m so happy we finally did this. Took some time for you to come to your senses. Lucky you didn’t wait too long before I was taken off the market.” Sean gives my hand a squeeze, and I wonder if kicking him under the table would get me banned. I do love their food, but he is alsoverykickable.
I try my hardest to let men down easy, and usually there is no problem with it because the reasoning is always so sound.
No, I’m so sorry I can’t accompany you to that wedding because work is so busy right now.
No, I’m sorry, my focus is on the upcoming gala that Cirque is hosting.
Saying no was easy. So, so easy.
But then I went and said yes, and now I am so out of practice at dating, I don’t know how to tell him this is not going anywhere. I’m racking my brain to give him a gentle letdown, wearing a nervous smile, and not knowing what to do with my hand stuck under his. Feels weird to let someone down while they are still holding your hand.
He doesn’t deserve a gentle anything, but I just don’t want to deal with the tantrum that would follow if I lead with “Listen, you’re kind of an ass and I would never voluntarily do this again.” So really, I’m not doing him any kindness, I’m simply looking for a way to expedite the process. Which I’m sure will still end with something along the lines of me not being that pretty anyways and he was just agreeing to this date because he felt bad for me.Tell yourself whatever you need to sweetheart, I’m not the one that named our make believe children.
I open my mouth to tell him I think we are better suited as friends—a lie—when I’m interrupted by the patterned vibration coming from my phone tucked away in my clutch. A steady beat vibrates through the table, annoying but obvious enough that I use the excuse to extricate my hand from under his, fingers already dancing at the feeling of freedom.
“You aren’t going to answer that, right? We are on adate,” he spits out, jaw clenched in obvious annoyance.
“Sean, my phone is on Do Not Disturb. There are only two people who are the exception to that, one of whom is my sister. I’m sure agentlemanlike yourself has no problem with me answering this family call to make sure everything is all right.” He starts to answer, mouth opening like a gaping fish out of water.Idiot. It was a rhetorical question because why the fuck would I ask your permission. I was trying to be nice instead of ruffling any feathers. But that idea floats away as I press the little green accept button with my eyes still locked on Sean's.
“Hi Sadie, is everything okay? I’m out…” My words trail away as my sister’s high-pitched squeak carries over the line. The one night I didn’t stay at work late. The one night I took off to do something stupid. The one night I tried not to let my mind be consumed with thoughts of Colton. “I’ll be right there,” I hang up the phone, already standing to grab my wallet out of my bag.
“What are you doing?” Sean asks, standing from his seat as I throw down a wad of bills.
“Going to have to cut this short. There has been an incident at the club. I have to leave,” I say, pulling up the rideshare app on my phone, mentally berating myself for not just driving myself in the first place.
