So when a woman came along who said, “No, I don’t want you,” he didn’t register disinterest. He didn’t go away like any other normal guy would’ve. He reclassified. At first I was simple. And now I was a challenge.
And unfortunately, James was the kind of guy who liked a challenge. I could see that. Now.
My heart sank. I had been playing this all wrong. If I had known he was one of those guys that got all nose-wide-open when a woman didn’t want him, maybe I would have handled the conversation differently.
“Look James, I can’t be clever with you right now. That’s not the way it works where you and me are concerned, so I’m just going to say straight up that we are in no way a match. And when I say no way, I mean that we’re complete opposites. And when I say complete opposites, I mean we come from two extremely different worlds, and we have absolutely nothing in common. And just in case I’m still not making myself clear enough, let me add that you and me could never, ever work out. And that’s why I stood you up.”
“So I’m not your type,” He stroked his square and clean-shaven chin. “That’s an interesting argument. Let’s talk about it some more. Over dinner.”
I kind of started to hate James then. Because seriously, how charmed had this guy’s life been that he didn’t understand basic concepts like rejection and being stood up? How could there be someone in this world so untouched by all the nasty things that happened when women and men dealt with each other? And moreover, how could he occupy the same universe as me?
I could taste the rage in my mouth.
“You really want to go out with me?” I asked, my voice low and dangerous, just like his had been when I first answered the door.
James leaned forward, so that his face was only a couple of inches away from mine. “Obviously I want to go out with you.”
Sigh. “Okay, fine. Give me a minute. Wait here.”
Then I really did close the door in his face.
. . .
It didn’t take me long to get ready. I just put on a pair of black jeans, some high-top Converses, and a Strokes T-shirt, which was pretty much what I wore all the time. I had given Russell a tip so good that it had gotten him a promotion at Celeb Weekly a few years ago, and one of his thank-you gifts had been an entire box of about fifty Strokes T-shirts left over from a promotion the magazine had just finished up. So now, when I wasn’t in evening gowns, I usually just threw on one of the T-shirts. I wasn’t a huge fan of the band, but I liked the simplicity of just wearing the same thing all the time.
I usually put in some effort and wore something nicer for dates; however, this thing I was about to do with James wasn’t so much a date as it was willfully throwing myself into a train wreck just to get it over with.
I really did not want to go back out there and face him, but given the conversation we had just had, it seemed like the only way to shake this little boy was to show him the difference between Stage Davie and Real Davie.
. . .
When I opened the door again, I found James leaning against the landing rail and typing on his BlackBerry.
“Sorry,” he said, not looking up. “I have to tell one of the publicists at my company that I won’t be able to make it to an event I had scheduled for tonight.”
“You can still go,” I said, leaping at the chance to get out of this.
“Just two more words,” he said, like he hadn’t even heard me make the offer.
He finished and pushed send. Then he put the BlackBerry away and looked at me. His eyes barely registered that my outfit wasn’t exactly hot-date material.