The ride home is uncomfortably silent. He’s a difficult man to figure out and now I have a case of major whiplash, not to mention a need to run my hands through that chaotic hair of his. One minute he’s on fire for me, and the next he’s talking some crap about how I deserve better. What’s all that supposed to mean? I want to say something, but to be honest, I don’t know where to begin or what to say. I don’t even know him well enough to think about picket fences and mini me’s, so why would he even bring something like that up? He’s the definition of confusion.
We finally pull up in front of my house and I make a hasty exit from his car. But he’s fast. He jumps out, calling after me. “Sam, wait.”
I stop, only because it would be completely rude not to.
I hear him open his trunk so I turn and look to see what he’s about. I’m curious now as I watch him pull the large basket out.
Handing it to me, he says, “I want you to take this. I told you we’d have dinner and we didn’t, so there’s no reason why you shouldn’t enjoy what’s inside.”
“No. I think I’ve lost my appetite.”
“I’m sorry.” In the darkness, it’s hard to see his features, but his tone is riddled with remorse.
“So am I.”
“Please.” He holds the basket in such a way that I can’t refuse it. I take it from him and he says something that I find very odd. “I wish I were someone else. Someone better than I am. Goodnight, Sam.” He turns with abruptness and jogs the short distance to his car door. Then he’s gone, leaving me even more puzzled than before.
I walk inside, reeling from this whole encounter, surprised to find Lauren sitting on the couch.
“You’re home early,” she says.
I shake my head.
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“No, not a ghost. Just Ben Rhoades.”
“Oh, right. How was dinner?” She wants the details and I need to talk. “Hey, what’s in the basket?”
A mixture of a laugh and a huff escapes from me as I plop down next to her. “I have no idea. I think it was supposed to be our dinner.”
“What?”
“Exactly. You’re not going to believe this when I tell you.” And she doesn’t.
“So let me get this straight. This is the guy who wanted to bang you the other night, but tonight wouldn’t even kiss you?”
“That’s right.”
“Maybe he has whiplash disorder and forgot to take his meds.” Lauren’s is the best explanation for his behavior, even if she said it half jokingly.
“I’m wondering the same.”
Lauren digs into the basket and oohs and ahhs over the contents as she pulls everything out. “He certainly went all out on this picnic stuff. You have a nice selection of charcuterie, artisan cheeses, and breads for your appetizer. And then an excellent salad along with some shrimp here. Very nice. And I see he didn’t leave out dessert. A huge wedge of peanut butter cheesecake, it looks like. Oh, and there are a couple of bottles of white and red wine in here, too. Nice ones, Sam. He’s a spender.”
I shrug. “A lot of good it does when he acts like he did.”
“There’s no good reason whatsoever that this food should go to waste, so why don’t I open this wine and get us some plates and we eat?”
I peek down into the basket and pull out the plates and silverware she overlooked. We both laugh.
“No self-respecting man who thinks of everything would forget the plates, silverware, and napkins now, would he?” she asks.
“Of course not.” And the food is scrumptious.
“You know what we need?”
“You’re not off the hook. How was your date?” I push.
“It was fun. But back to the girls’ dinner out we’ve been talking about. We could be your advisory council on this.” Lauren practically jumps off the couch in excitement about her idea, and nearly knocks the basket over and all the food. I make the save, wrapping my arms around everything, but in the process, a bunch of cheese ends up down my shirt.
“Damn, Lauren, what the hell?”
She puts her hand down my shirt and grabs the wedge of Clemson Blue that made its way between my boobs and laughs. “Sorry.”
“Now I have to take a shower because I reek of blue cheese.”
“Yeah, but not just any blue cheese. It’s Clemson Blue Cheese. You’re special.”
“Gah, you are crazy. Make the date. I’m free on Tuesday.” I relieve myself of the burdensome basket, and head to the bathroom. I don’t bother asking more about her date. Lauren can be secretive about her love life. She’ll tell me when she’s ready to share. When I rejoin her, she has a weird look in her eye.
“Now what?”
She raises her wine glass and gestures toward the counter. There sits a large bouquet of flowers.
“Where did those come from?”
“A florist.”
“Okay, so only about three florists in town deliver after eight. It’s ten p.m. Who the hell is sending me flowers this late?”