He nods slowly and brings his cocktail up to his lips.
“What about you?” I say. “Jackie says you’re a bit booky yourself. What’s on your shelf right now?”
“Reading a biography right now.” He places crossed hands behind his head, leaning farther back in his seat.
“Oooh.” I turn my martini glass in small circles along the table. “I love biographies. Which one?”
“Anthony Kiedis.”
I bite on my lower lip. “Is he an author or humanitarian or—”
“Chili Peppers,” he says with a smug look. “Love the Red Hot Chili Peppers.”
“Ah.” I awkwardly take another drink.
“What do you say we get out of here and head on over to the restaurant?” Rick pulls a gold money clip from the inside of his navy-blue suit jacket. “We’ve got a reservation there, gorgeous view overlooking the Sound. Come on, love.” He slaps down a wad of cash and holds his hand out for me. “Let’s get our seafood on.”
***
“Does this meet your Bostonian standards?” Rick asks, taking a crack at his lobster. “Seattle isn’t exactly shabby seafood eats.”
“Oh, it’s great,” I say, taking a bite of my succulent, buttery piece of lobster.
Given the season, I would have ordered the pink salmon, because in one month’s time it’ll be slim-pickings around here. But as with the cocktails, Rick ordered for me and ahead of time. The lobster is delectable, at least.
“Seattle has some pretty decent seafood,” I say, taking another bite. “Not Boston, but good.”
“You get to go home much?” he asks, licking his lips. “To Boston?”
“Not nearly as often as I’d like,” I tell him honestly. “I’m usually on the road all the time, anyhow. But I do try to make it out there when I can.”
“Travel a lot for work?” He’s focusing almost entirely on his lobster, making loud cracking noises and slurping at the buttery pieces while talking.
“Just travel a lot. I love to travel.”
“Ever been to Lake Tahoe?” He looks up, eyebrows raised.
“Once, yes.”
“Got a buddy out there.” He wipes his hands on the large napkin. “He’s got a speedboat. Fuckin’ awesome boating up there. That’s a party location, let me tell you.”
I went with a small group in college for an extended weekend to Lake Tahoe. It was fun, and, as Rick says, “a party location.” I wouldn’t call it one of my “traveled-to places,” but not everyone has the luxury or ability or desire that I do to jet around the globe.
“So, you’re a photographer,” I say, surprised that I haven’t yet brought this up. “Professional photographer?”
“You bet,” he says, going right back to work on his slippery lobster.
“That’s awesome. What do you mostly shoot?”
“Models.” His answer is so straightforward. I’m sort of at a loss for words, but Rick fills the impending gap. “Hot chicks. Models.” He shrugs casually. “Love my work.”
“What kind of models?” I ask. For a professional photographer, his reference to “shooting hot chicks” seems a little off-color, but all right.
“The gorgeous type, obviously,” he says with a throaty laugh. He takes a long drink of his white wine. “Mostly for women’s shoes, handbags, accessories.” He smacks his lips. “Have done a little swimsuit work, but mostly the models I shoot always have their clothes on. Accessories and all.” He rolls his eyes and takes another drink of wine. “Too bad for me, eh?”
All I can do is stare at his plate, suddenly uncomfortable and totally turned off by this Rick character. The date had been going all right, and now things are just really falling by the wayside. With each question I feel like the divide between us is growing, the awkwardness right along with it.
“Don’t get me wrong,” he slurs, tossing back the rest of what I’m fairly certain is his third glass of wine. I’m still working on my first, but I kind of wish I was drunk right about now. Sitting through this date is slowly becoming unbearable.
“I would love to do more swimsuit shoots,” Rick rags on, “but right now all I’m getting is the high-class, flashy stuff. The bags, the shoes, that kind of shit.” He picks up a small piece of lobster with his fingers and sucks it back. “You’re not familiar with that ritzy stuff, though. You’re one of those down-to-earth kind of girls.” He points a buttery hand in my general direction.
“Oh, I am down to earth,” I say with pride.
“So you get me,” he says. “I’m shooting the girls who are skinny, all about the money and the bling, the designer labels. The gorgeous girls.” He leans into the table and with a duplicitous smile says, “Sometimes I even get lucky with some of them.” He winks. “Know what I mean?”
“Good for you.”
“And sometimes I like to balance out the hot and steamy sexual affairs with more down-to-earth chicks.” He licks his fingers, then points at me. “Like you.”
What? I almost choke on my small swallow of wine. What did he just say?
“I hope I’m not offending you, Emily,” he says abruptly, holding up a greasy hand. “I dig your style and think you’re sexy in your own way.”
He takes a rough stab at a piece of lobster, and it’s so slippery with butter that it slides off the tines of his fork, but he doesn’t notice. He puts the fork in his mouth anyway. “A little earthiness in between the sexiness,” he says. “It’s great balance. Gotta have balance in life.” He smiles and picks up a piece of lobster with his fingers.
“You know, Rick,” I say, setting my cloth napkin on top of my still full plate, “It’s been nice, but I just remembered that I have a friend who’s expecting a ride from me.”
“I thought you came by cab?” His eyes, glazed with confusion (and probably too much alcohol), follow me as I stand from the table.
“I did,” I say, not paying attention to any other thought than getting out of here right now.
“All right,” he says, looking thunderstruck. “Can I call you?”
“No,” I say sweetly, standing. “No, I don’t think that’s such a good idea.”
“Aww, Emily,” his voice turns soft. “I didn’t offend you with that model talk, did I? Come on, I’m sure you’ve got a smoking body and know a few hot moves.”
I give a hearty laugh. “Good night, Rick.”
“Hey, Emily.” He stands from the table, the silverware and glasses making clinking noises as he roughly moves. “Come on. At least stay for dessert. I’ve ordered us a soufflé.”
I grab Lara’s clutch. “Good night,” I repeat, and I make a beeline for the exit.
What a nightmare. How utterly rude!
And, seriously, ordering for me again?
Chapter Twelve
“I don’t believe it!” Claire says, nearly screaming. Jackie’s little dog Bella is hiding from the noise underneath the yellow pillow on Robin’s front room couch.
“Believe it,” I say, patting Bella’s small rear, which is only slightly protruding from under the pillow. “That date was a dud. D-U-D dud!”
Jackie looks both agitated and disappointed. “I so thought you two would have a great connection.” She wags her head disbelievingly. “Both photographers!”
“Correction,” I say, “He photographs hot, sexy, and skinny models. I’m the not hot, not sexy, not skinny girl who photographs…landscapes.”
Sophie and Robin burst out laughing, saying that Rick definitely wins the prize for Douche Date of the Year.
“I’m sorry, Em,” Jackie says with a frown. “What a dick. How dare he imply you’re fat.”
I chuckle with a mouthful of homemade sangria Lara and Robin whipped up for tonight’s girls’ night. “He didn’t imply I was fat, Jackie,” I point out. “Just that he dates sexy, skinny models, and,” I take another quick drink, “that he breaks up those dates with down-to-earth women like me.”
“Dick,” Jackie says, thickly running her tongue along her bright, bleached
teeth. “What a wretched setup. I’m so sorry, babe. I thought he was good material.”
I can laugh about it. I mean, it was a blind date. It was some random guy Jackie found at a bar—a bar called Delicious, of all things. Hip spot or not, there really was never much promise to begin with, anyhow. No matter how great the date started off.
“So, one date down,” Claire says meticulously, wielding a Sharpie. “That was Jackie’s date.” She makes a bold ‘X’ under Jackie, the second name in a horizontal list of the five girls’ names.
“The promise of hope rests in Claire’s, Sophie’s, Lara’s, and my hands,” Robin says, gesturing to the large piece of construction paper Claire’s holding up for everyone to see.
I squint to note what’s scrawled underneath Claire’s and Robin’s names. “What’s there?” I ask, pointing.
“These names?” Claire says. “They’re prospective dates.”
“They’re ideas,” Robin chimes in. “Claire and I are almost there.”
“I might have someone, too,” Lara says, taking a sip of her sangria.
“Oooh,” Claire sings. “Who? Who?”
Lara pulls a piece of apple out of her glass and takes a small bite. “Not telling. I said I might have someone. It’s not like Cooperton Advertising is filled with available and attractive men.”
“Yeah,” Claire sighs, plopping her chin into her palms, resting her elbows clumsily on the piece of paper outlining the Operation Blind Date plans.
“I’m working on it, though,” Lara says sprightly. “No worries, Em.”
“Oh, I’m not worried.” I lean back into my seat on the couch. “So long as I’m not hooked up with another pompous jackass like Rick, I’m cool.”
“He so wasn’t that pompous when I met him,” Jackie counters.
“We’re going to nail this, Em,” Sophie says supportively. She gently pulls at the paper under Claire’s elbows and, when free, stares at it thoughtfully for a minute.
“Any leads on your end, Sophie?” Lara says, now scanning through her BlackBerry.
“Not a one,” Sophie replies gloomily. “I’ll be the last girl to deliver, more than likely.”
“I know!” Jackie pipes in. “What about that guy from your café, Sophie?”
“Chad?” A look of sheer horror covers Sophie’s face.
“No,” Jackie says. “Not Chad, dummy. That other guy. The kid with the messy hair that you hired not that long ago?”
“Kid,” Robin says with a laugh. “He’s not a kid.”
“Well his hair’s all messy like a kid.”
“You mean Gatz?” Sophie queries. “Gatz from the café?” She looks straight at me, as if asking, “Yeah, how about him?”
“Gatz?” Jackie says, somewhat aghast. “What kind of a name is that?”
“His mom’s a fan of The Great Gatsby,” I say. “The name stuck.” I make a snorting sound and wag my head briskly. “Girls. Gatz? I don’t think so.”
“Why not?” Lara asks.
I’ve never really thought about it, to be honest. Shouldn’t that be telling in its own way? So he’s attractive in his own messy, artsy-ish kind of way, and so he’s a nice guy, but he’s just a co-worker.
“He’s kind of goofy-looking, come to think of it,” Jackie says. “Not bad-looking, but just goofy. Never mind.”
“Yeah,” Claire says resolutely. “It’s kind of like hooking you up with Chad. It’s just—”
“Weird,” Lara finishes, and we all share a laugh.
“It’s worth a thought,” Robin offers in an oh-so-not-helpful way.
“Ew!” Claire says, making a sour face. “No, no.”
“Yeah,” I say. “We’ve worked together a while already, and if neither of us have had the sparks, then…” I scrunch my nose up. “No, it’s just not in fate’s hands.”
“But Chad could be a hookup, maybe?” Claire offers.
“What’s the sudden switch, Claire?” I ask, gobsmacked.
“Think about it!” Claire’s eyes get all starry, and she’s propped up on her knees, stabilizing herself on the couch by holding onto Sophie’s slender shoulder. “You could get with Chad, and Chad’s practically a brother to Conner! Then we’d be, like, sisters! Oh, Emily, puh-lease date Chad! Come on. I’ll set you up.”
Sophie and I exchange appalled glances. Is Claire serious?
“You can’t be for real,” I say, my mouth agape.
“Claire,” Lara says, “you are not for real.”
“Not at all!” Sophie says.
“Oh, why the hell not?” Claire huffs, falling back onto her heels.
“I could give you a million reasons why not,” I say. I pull Bella into my lap and lightly stroke her petite body.
“A million and one,” Sophie says.
“I’m open-minded,” I add, “but not that open-minded.”
Sophie looks down at the piece of construction paper. “We’ll fill this in with quality men, Emily.” She gives Claire a mock-evil eye.
“Whatevs,” Claire says, leaping from the couch. “I’m only testing all waters.” She reaches for her large, white purse and checks her cell phone.
Sophie tosses the paper and Sharpie onto the large ottoman and looks at her watch. “Girls, I’m calling it a night. Got an early morning at the café, as usual.” She gathers her purse and sweater.
“I’m ridin’ with ya!” Jackie cries out, jumping from her seat. She hikes up her tube top, then holds open her dog carrier. I slip Bella into it.
“I’m calling it a night, too,” Lara says.
“Right behind ya!” Claire cries. She chucks her phone back into her purse.
I follow Robin into the kitchen, saying goodbye to the rest of the girls on the way.
“Honestly,” I say when Robin and I begin to tidy up her kitchen. I put plastic wrap over the pitcher of sangria and slip it into the fridge. “None of you girls needs to break your back over this dating game.”
“It’s kind of fun,” Robin says, wiping down the granite countertops. “We all want you to be as happy and as in love as, well, most of us are.” She casts a smile my way, then begins to close the opened cupboards and drawers.
“So if this dating operation goes well for me, we can try it on Sophie?” I tease.
“Now you’re talkin’.” Robin turns out the kitchen lights and leads the way back into the front room. She yawns and stretches her arms over her head, taking a heavy seat.
“I should head out,” I say. “You’re sleeping for two now, and it’s getting late.”
“Before you go,” she says, motioning at the open space next to her on the couch, “can I ask you something?”
“Sure. Anything!” I plop down beside her.
She smoothes her light blue blouse over the tiniest of baby bumps. In a low tone she says, “I didn’t bring it up tonight because I didn’t want to bring too much drama to the table.”
What’s Robin getting at? And what’s this about “too much drama”? Since when have any of us thought girls’ nights were too drama-filled?
“Lara knows, obviously,” she says with a lopsided grin. “I got her opinion, but I was hoping I could get yours, too.”
“Advice on what?” I turn towards her, crossing my legs and folding my hands in my lap. “You can always come to me, by the way. You know that, right?”
“Of course. That’s why I am coming to you.” She pushes her glasses further up the bridge of her nose. “I can always trust you’ll give me sage advice, and I could really use some of it right about now.”
“It’s about Brandon, isn’t it?” It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that Rose’s biological nincompoop of a father is the reason behind Robin’s frown and low voice.
As anticipated, she nods.
“He contacted you again since the last call, didn’t he?” I ask.
I spot a lone tear streak down Robin’s soft, makeup-less yet beautifully rosy cheek. She tries to bat it away, but a second one follows quickly b
ehind.
“He did, the bastard.” More tears begin to stream down both cheeks.
“It’s all right,” I say, pulling her tight. “You said that you put your foot down and told him you’ll talk to him on your own time. On your own terms. Right?”
“Yeah,” she manages to squeak out.
“So that’s exactly what you’ll do!” I pull her tighter, pressing her head to mine. “He can keep on calling, but you will contact him when you’re ready.”
“It’s ironic, really,” she says, sobbing. “He played the hard-to-get-a-hold-of role when I called him to tell him I was pregnant, and now the shoe’s on the other foot. Or…he’s easy to get a hold of, but only now that I don’t want to… Oh, you know what I mean.”
“It serves him right!” I say boldly. “He doesn’t call the shots, Robin.”
She eases out of my grasp, wiping away the fresh stream of tears. She makes a pathetic sniffle, and I rest a hand on her shoulder. “It does serve him right, I guess. But getting even isn’t the reason I’m doing this, Emily. It isn’t why I’m telling him I’ll call him when I’m good and ready.”
“Vindication and justification aren’t your trademarks, Robin, and that’s perfectly all right. It’s admirable, really.”
“So you understand why I’m hesitant to talk to him?” She looks at me with imploring eyes. “You know why I want to do this on my time? In my own way?”
“Absolutely.” I move my hand to her knee and give it a solid pat. “This isn’t an easy thing to deal with. He was in and out of your life like that,” I snap my fingers, “and now he suddenly wants back in.” I inhale deeply, exhale loudly. “That’s not an easy pill to swallow. You need to manage this in your own way. Your own time. Calling your shots.”
“There’s more,” she says. She looks frightened, her hazel eyes glassy. Fresh tears cascade down her cheeks. “I am going to handle this. I am going to talk to Brandon.” She sniffles. “I’m going to decide how and when because…” She blinks long and hard, another stream of tears dropping down. “…He wants to see me. Talk to me. Brandon wants to—” She sniffs back hard and loudly. “He wants to meet Rose, Emily.”
When Girlfriends Take Chances Page 11
