A shadow passed over his face. “What would you call it?”
“Um, I don’t know. . . . Spin? Denial? I mean you were supposed to be the next president of Farrell Fine Hair. That’s what you were groomed for, and at the last minute you guys decided to sell the company?”
“I was outvoted by my family on that one. So I made lemonade.”
“Really?” I asked. “Because it sounds like you took what they gave you. And that ain’t making lemonade, that’s plain old giving up.”
His eyes went hard, and he leaned forward. “Listen,” he said in a low voice. “I can see that you weren’t joking about Googling me a few times, but that doesn’t mean you know anything about me or my family. Understand?”
I found his reaction intriguing and couldn’t resist the urge to poke a little more. I mean this was the only date I would ever have with the James Farrell. When would I get another chance like this to probe his psyche? “I understand that your underwhelming career choice obviously makes you uncomfortable.”
James sat back then. “I’m surprised that someone who claims to not be using her psych degree would be so judgmental.”
I laughed a little at that comeback. “James, you’re the one who doesn’t know anything about me. Because if you did, you’d realize that I am already so much more than anyone ever expected me to be. I don’t have anything to prove.
“You, on the other hand, are a very attractive, very rich, and very intelligent man. That’s really nice for you, and I’m sure that there are a lot of women in L.A who would be creaming their panties if you asked them out. But you’re not even trying to live up to your potential. And in my lowly opinion, that’s just unattractive.”
He gritted his teeth, but before he could respond the waitress came to the table with my pie and his chicken.
We ate in silence. From the start, he had a hard time getting his knife through his rubbery chicken, and I kind of felt bad about it. Contrary to tonight, I do not make a habit of being bitchy or of not warning the person I’m with about the food at the House of Pies. But I knew in my heart that this awful, awful awkward date was the best thing for James. Because it was the only way he would see that I wasn’t mysterious or a challenge. Just a cold bitch that stood him up and then grilled him ruthlessly about his so-called job.
James gave up on his chicken after four bites, and by the time I finished my pie, he had already signaled the waitress for the bill.
It was strange, because High School Davie would have killed for this opportunity—was at this moment thrilled just to be sitting at the same table as James. But Real Davie was all the way at the other end of that crush spectrum. And I was relieved that I’d finally made him understand that an affair with me would not be fun.
. . .
Halfway through the drive back across town to Hollywood, I started humming along with the radio, which he had turned on in lieu of conversation as soon as we got back in the car.
He let me go on for a while, before asking, “Are you happy now?”
“Yes, I am.” I gave him a sassy country smile. “The pie was very good.”
He didn’t take the bait, just downshifted to turn left onto Vine.
I was trying to come up with the perfect exit line. Something other than “Bye-bye, baby,” which is what Date Davie usually said—because really how else would a torch singer say good-bye on a first date?
But I definitely wasn’t Date Davie tonight. And as we pulled into the club’s parking lot, I settled on “See you around,” even though I had killed any chance of that ever happening. Thank the Lord.
But before I could deliver my perfect exit line, he cut the engine and asked, “Answer this for me: If we’re not a match, then why is my dick harder right now than it has ever been in my entire life?”