With one final swerve and beep of the horn, the cab came to a stop outside of Marlowe’s, and I internally cursed when my eyes met the glow of 8:02 p.m. on the dashboard.
Shit. Without any excuses of last-minute work meetings or family emergencies in my arsenal, I was officially real fucking late for dinner with Abby and Jen.
“That’ll be $20.15,” the cabbie said as he slid the shifter into Park.
“What?” I questioned with squinty eyes and an opened mouth. “That cab ride was over twenty dollars? This restaurant is, like, four blocks away from my apartment.”
He shrugged. “Sorry, sweetheart, but cab fares have gone up since Uber took over.”
“Jesus,” I muttered and pulled out a twenty-dollar bill and three singles. “Uh…thanks, I guess.” I tossed the money into the front seat and hopped out of the cab in a hurry.
Our dinner reservation was for 7:30 p.m., and it was a staggering thirty-two—now thirty-three—minutes after that. Well past the time frame that would be considered excusable to Abby and Jen. They were both punctual to the point of anal retentive and expected everyone within their atmosphere to be the same—especially Abby. If her date wasn’t five minutes early, he might as well just start the night with, “Hey, sorry I’m late. Obviously, I’m an asshole.” Over twenty minutes late? He might as well just not show up.
So, unless I had actually managed to set my hair on fire while blow-drying, there weren’t many excuses that would win me a warm greeting tonight.
I could say that writing had made me lose track of time, but that particular apology had bags under its eyes it was so tired. Plus, it was a lie.
Rather, I’d spent my day people watching with Reed at Golden Gate Park, making it a game to provide the inner monologue of each passerby. I almost hated that he had such a knack for fictional narration.
When a thirty-something guy—decked out in a neon yellow tracksuit—had run by us while shouting into his Bluetooth, Reed had narrated, “Listen, Mary, I told you I can only wear Lycra and spandex from now on… No… I can’t wear skinny jeans anymore… Goddammit, Mary! I told you I’m a neo-hipster now! … No, it’s not the same fucking thing! It’s different… Well, basically it’s where you’re a hipster, but since hipsterism has gone so mainstream, you dress and act like a regular person.”
And when a middle-aged woman in yoga pants had strolled past our bench with a white fluffy dog wearing a sweater knitted from hemp, Reed had brilliantly fictionalized, “It’s been a really rough week. Fido is only seven days into the vegan challenge, and he’s having a hard time with it… Oh, God, no, I’m not too fussy with his new diet. He can still eat anything that’s gluten-free, sugar-free, dairy-free, unprocessed, fair-trade, and organic.”
I hadn’t been able to keep a straight face through the entire game. By the time he’d started monologue-ing Fido’s thoughts on his new diet, I’d laughed loud enough to gain the attention of everyone in our vicinity, including the pigeons.
It’d been over a week since we did the horizontal tango, and I’d yet to grow tired of Reed Luca and his games—and he had a lot of them. Lying to each and every acquaintance and getting them to play along, in an attempt to look like they weren’t completely in the dark. Calling random places pretending to be employed or previously employed and disgruntled. Shopping for combinations of items that often lacked explanation and acting as though it was completely normal—even asking for pigeon milk and farm-raised sugar when we’d stopped for coffee on the way over there.
I almost liked his games as much as I liked him.
And I liked him.
Somewhere along the way, hate had morphed into dislike and then reincarnated itself into lust, and then, like had blossomed. I liked Reed. Probably too much. But I couldn’t help it. That intriguing bastard was too much fun. Infuriating bullshit columns aside, I couldn’t not like him.
You don’t just like him, my mind whispered, but I refused to take a long enough pause to understand what the hell that meant. Maybe it was avoidance. Maybe it was denial. Maybe I was just compartmentalizing. But no matter the reason, I knew I wanted more of Reed—more time, more words, more touches, more kisses, more, more, more.
I had no idea what we were or where we were headed, but it didn’t matter.
I’d never been the type of girl who needed labels. I preferred to live in the moment and let things evolve naturally. I didn’t want a man who was loyal to me out of misplaced obligation. And I definitely didn’t want the pretenses and the insecurities that so often came with those misplaced obligations. I wanted a partner who freely, willingly, and openly chose me, and I didn’t need, or necessarily want, promises or labels or marriage to achieve that.
Was Reed Luca my version of a perfect partner?
I didn’t have a fucking clue. But, like I said before, I refused to take a long enough pause to understand it all. I just wanted to let it all fall into place organically, without wasting time questioning every little thing.
The instant I stepped through the sleek glass doors of Marlowe’s, I spotted the girls and headed for their table. This was a popular restaurant in San Francisco that made you feel like you had been submerged in hipster the instant you stepped through the doors. Between the laid-back ambiance and the homemade French fries doused in horseradish aioli, I was a big, big fan.
“Sorry I’m late, guys,” I said and sat down in the chair across from Abby and Jen.
“No big deal.” Jen shrugged. “We’ve just been enjoying some cocktails while we were waiting.”
My eyes narrowed. Something was up.
The waitress came up to our table and set a menu in front of my seat. “Can I get you something to drink?”
“I’ll just take a water with lemon for now.”
“Would you like to wait for your other guest to arrive before you order?” she asked with a friendly smile.
“Yeah, that’d be great, thanks,” Abby responded and avoided my questioning gaze.
“Sounds good.” The waitress nodded. “I’ll grab some waters for the table.”
“Thanks,” I said, and the instant she walked away from the table, I looked back and forth between my friends. “Other guest?”
Jen ignored me. “Do you know what you’re getting to eat, Ab?”
“Uh, I’m not sure yet,” Abby responded and stared into her menu like it had the ability to teleport her somewhere else.
“Who else is coming to dinner?”
Half of my heart sped up, thinking that maybe, just maybe, it would be Reed.
“Girls! Girls!” A poorly executed British accent filled my ears, and I closed my eyes tightly in hopes that maybe I was hearing things. “I’m so sorry I’m late.”
Yeah, I knew that awful excuse of a posh London accent anywhere.
Simone was the mystery dinner guest, not Reed. Fucking hell.
I had the urge to click my heels together and start chanting, There’s no place like home, there’s no place like home. If I’d had on red, glittery heels and a dog named Toto, you bet your sweet ass I would’ve at least given it a try.
“Oh my God, you wouldn’t believe what happened to me on my way here!” she exclaimed and sat down in the chair beside mine.
Oh, fantastic. Even better.
I gave up the good fight and opened my eyes, only to be hit with the vision of Simone in lace and velvet and her boobs defying gravitational limits I wasn’t sure NASA had approved.
We’re definitely not in Kansas anymore, Toto. We’ve somehow taken the Yellow Brick Road to the land of fake and freaky.
And here I’d been feeling guilty about being thirty minutes late. No wonder these two devious bitches had begged me to have dinner tonight. They needed a goddamn buffer.
“Oh, I had no idea we were dressing down tonight,” Simone said, successfully offending everyone in one fell swoop, and I fought my fight or flight response. One solid punch to the nose or haul ass out of there? Neither seemed swift enough.
“Is anyone going to ask me what happened to me on my way here?” she questioned, and her face scrunched like she’d just sucked on a lemon.
“What did you say you’re going to get, Lola?” Jen asked.
I brought my hands to my hip and cranked up my middle finger like a jack-in-the-box so she could see. But for the sake of being polite, I pasted a fake-ass smile on my face as well. “Definitely the French fries.”
“Good choice,” a male voice chimed in, and I looked up to find three thirty-something men dressed in suits and ties standing beside our table. “Marlowe’s has the best French fries in San Francisco.”
I looked to my friends to see if they were as mystified by his presence as I was, but not one of them was looking at me.
“Sorry to interrupt,” he continued. “But we’d love to buy you beautiful ladies a drink to go with your dinner.”
“Oh, no need to apologize,” Jen said with a flutter of her eyelashes.
“Definitely no need to apologize,” Abby added with a coy flip of her hair.
“What brings you handsome gentlemen out for the evening?” Simone joined in, dropping her fake British accent into what I guessed was her attempt at a seductive purr.
The conversation continued on around me, but I just sat back and existed. I couldn’t bring myself to participate as I watched my smart, beautiful, capable, and confident friends interact with these men. Like chameleons, I witnessed each of them change from the versions I knew and loved—well, tolerated in Simone’s case—into something I didn’t recognize. All three of them laughed a little too much, smiled a little too easily, and chatted in this sugary-sweet tone that had me cringing internally. It was like they were being the versions of themselves they thought these guys wanted them to be instead of the people they actually were.
And I didn’t like it. I didn’t like it one bit.
“You’re quiet,” the guy standing beside my chair said while looking directly at me.
I had to work not to roll my eyes. “It’s because I’m a very shy person.”
“Cough, Bullshit, Cough,” Jen muttered.
I shot a glare in her direction, but this guy seemed completely oblivious.
“I like shy girls,” he added with a sly grin.
“What about shy lesbian girls?” I asked with a saccharine smile. “Do you like those, too?”
“She’s not a lesbian,” Abby announced on a laugh, and then her eyes met mine. “Stop telling people you’re a lesbian, ya weirdo.”
“This conversation makes me want to be one,” I muttered.
Was it so hard for women to just enjoy a night out together without random, annoying men trying to find their next one-night-fuck? It was so obvious when it came to guys with those intentions, it was written all over their faces.
And these three guys all but screamed, “Let’s fuck.”
God, what was with my friends?
I hated what I was observing. My friends acting like people they weren’t, hiding the very best parts of their personalities with these façades. The second these guys had come to our table, they’d become completely different people—besides Simone. She was always fake and shallow and befitting of the attention she tried to garner. She’d just added a seductive purr that was more black cat screeching than playful sex kitten.
But seriously, why couldn’t my friends just be themselves?
Why put on an act?
I was starting to think, when it came to dating, the real art of conservation was dead. What used to be rare and finely sculpted words had morphed into overproduced one-liners.
Most men didn’t care or didn’t know how to actually converse with a woman. And so many women wanted to find their “person” so badly they ignored the red flags.
Women overlooked the fact that a man saying things like, “You look really hot in that dress” was, in reality, a very objectifying thing to say, and it said a lot about the person saying it. Instead, they took it as a compliment.
Or, they portrayed themselves as someone they weren’t.
Was it so hard just to be yourself? And more importantly, why would you even want to be anyone but yourself?
“Be you. Not what some faceless Simon behind a computer tells you to be—and not what the person you’re trying to impress wants.”
The exact words Reed had said in his YouTube video filled my brain.
Oh. My. God.
That cocky, know-it-all bastard was right.
Reed Luca was right. Goddammit, he’s wonderful.
Jen’s too fake, too fucking cheery laugh filled my ears, and I fought the urge to groan out loud. Abby and Simone joined in, laughing far too hard at something one of the Three Suited Stooges had said.
Yeah. I didn’t want to be a part of this charade, and since Reed Luca was the reason for my epiphany, it was only fair he be the one to help me get the fuck out of it.
I pulled out my phone and shot him a text message.
Me: I need your help. Call my phone with a fake emergency.
His response chimed in a few minutes later.
Reed: I thought you were at dinner with your friends?
Me: I am. Simone is also here.
Reed: Ah, now I understand.
Me: So, you’ll bail me out of this?
Reed: Sure thing, Roller Skates.
Me: Oh, and can you come pick me up, too?
After tapping send, I crossed my fingers under the table in hopes he wouldn’t let me down on this one. I needed to get the hell out of Dodge.
I also wanted to see Reed.
But minor details, right?
I mean, a girl could only handle so many epiphanies in one night.
Reed: You’re a demanding little thing tonight, huh?
Me: Yep.
Reed: Where are you?
Me: Marlowe’s
Reed: I’ll only do it under one condition.
Me: What’s that?
Reed: Before you leave the restaurant, pick up a to-go order for me at the bar.
Me: You love their fries, too?
Reed: Like you wouldn’t believe. They have amazing burgers, too.
Me: Mind ordering two of those meals? We haven’t even ordered our food yet.
Reed: At your service, Princess Lo.
Me: Thanks, smartass.
The initial trickles of guilt filtered into my belly, and I started to question my decision to just up and leave my friends. But when I glanced around the table and it was apparent no one even noticed my complete retreat from the conversation, that guilt started to subside. And when Jen started laughing like a hyena over some cheesy joke one of the men had told the table, that guilt washed the fuck out to sea.
Yeah. I had no shame in this game.
My phone lit up with another text and I smiled.
Reed: Give me five minutes to call in this order, and I’ll call your phone.
Me: You’re the best.
Reed: I know. ;)
There was no doubt in my mind that Reed Luca really did think he was the best.
Bizarrely, I was starting to think it, too.