“I Really Want You to Hate Me”—Meg Myers
I stand beneath the green-and-white awning, my eyes lifting to the sign: Ristorante Maestrale.
I smooth my skirt as I make my way up the stairs, weaving through the crowd gathered around the open door. The hostess standing just inside the entrance smiles and grabs a menu, starting to turn from the podium.
“Uh, there will be two,” I say with a scowl.
“Oh…” She reaches behind her and grabs another menu. “Sorry.”
I follow her through the crowded dining room to a booth at the very back of the restaurant.
"There you go. Right by the window," she says, the clinking of dishes and the lull of conversation nearly drowning out her mousy voice. I take a seat, and she places the menu in front of me before setting the other on the table. "Is there a name I should be waiting for to show them where you’ve been sat?" A slight smirk forms on her lips.
“Uh, a guy… a man. About six foot tall. Brown hair.” I shrug. I should just give her his name, but for some reason, I just don’t want to. Maybe it’s embarrassment. Or worry. I don’t want her to think I’m some slut of his. “I’m sure he’ll find me.”
She arches a brow before turning on her heel and walking off.
Just as I open the menu, my phone dings with a voicemail. The first thought that runs through my mind is that it's most likely my pathetic mother calling to beg me for more money. Rolling my eyes, I press Play, wondering whether she'll be strung out on meth or just drunk this time.
"Uh… hey, Miranda. It's… uh… Jax. Just wanted to see what you were doing. Thinking maybe dinner was in order. Call me back when you're… um… when you’re not busy."
I don't even realize I'm smiling until I catch my reflection in the window. I exit out of my voicemail and set my phone on the table, staring at it. My gaze drifts out the window in search of Edwin then back to the phone. I don't do this entire people thing—guy thing—whatever this is, so I'm not really sure whether calling him back this soon will make me look desperate or not. And besides, what am I going to say? Come hang out with me and the raging dickhead? Nope, I'll just stumble over my words. I shake my head and drop my phone inside my purse. And this is why I want to write. You don't have to know how to deal with people. Only imaginary people.
A young, acne-riddled waiter stops at the end of the table, sucking me out of my thoughts. "Would you like something to drink, ma'am?"
"Water." I look at the empty seat across from me. "I guess two waters."
"Any wine this evening?"
I shake my head, and he turns to walk away, but I stop him. "You know what? Yeah, give me a glass of chardonnay, please."
"House?"
"That's fine."
I bury my face in my palms as he walks off. This entire ordeal with Edwin is stressing me out, and the fact that Jax has, for whatever fucking reason, taken up residence in my head… so what will a glass of wine hurt?
A few moments later, the waiter returns with a large glass of wine, which I down in a matter of minutes. Every few minutes the waiter passes by, glancing at the empty seat. He brings me a second glass of wine—and a third—and still I sit alone, my fingers drumming over the white tablecloth.
The waiter stops at the table again, this time balancing a tray of dirty dishes on his arm. "You sure you don’t want to order an appetizer while you wait? Some calamari, possibly?"
"Uh, yeah. I’m sure.” I glance at the empty seat, embarrassment nearly drowning me. Where the hell is he?
I smile as the waiter walks off, and for some reason, the room starts to feel as though it’s closing in on me. The conversation grows louder. The rattle of dishes. The annoying laugh of that lady across the room. The child whining. Whining. Whining. Sweat begins to prick over my forehead, and my head is swimming from the wine. I just need to step outside for a moment. Get a breath of fresh air. Not have that damn waiter staring at me because I’m here alone and waiting like a woman who’s been stood up. I don’t want him to think I’m that girl, so I push away from the table, grabbing my phone and purse, and briskly make my way to the front and out the door.
The cold air wraps around me, loosening the tension that has been building in my muscles like a small tremor. I take a deep breath. I glance around the crowded parking lot, telling myself Edwin is roaming around looking for a parking spot. Maybe he’s been stopped by fans.
Telling myself I’m not crazy for continuing to work with him. That it will all work out in the end.
My heels tap over the pavement as I make my way back to the entrance of the restaurant. My cheeks sting from the warmth from inside. I skirt around the hostess stand, weave between the family of four blocking the opening to the dining area, and go straight to my table.
There’s a fresh glass of water. I fall down into the chair and grab my phone before I set my purse in the empty seat beside me.
Jax. Jax and his dimples. He wants to see me. I want to see him. No, if I’m honest, I want to do more than see him, and for that, I am ashamed. I want him naked on top of me, his hands wrapped tightly around my throat as he fucks me. I feel a slight pressure build between my thighs at the thought of it, and almost as suddenly as that desire has begun to torch through me like a rogue fire amongst parched woods, guilt douses me. Something about him makes me feel slightly mad. Unhinged in the most delightful of ways. He makes me feel as if I could possibly be something I’m not. As if I could be that girl. That girl authors write about. That girl readers dream they were. That girl who ends up with that guy…
My leg is shaking, and I’ve nearly chewed through my bottom lip. I pull up his contact, staring at his name. His name: Jax Peralta. Something about that sounds so right. Miranda and Jax. I feel like a teenager again with a ridiculous crush. My finger hovers over the Call button. Anticipation builds. My heart pounds in my chest; my mouth feels dry.
“More wine?”
I barely hear the waiter I’m so focused on my phone, but I nod all the same, and he trots off.
No, texting is easier because then I don't have to talk to him and worry about what a bumbling idiot I sound like. I can just type out words, read them, realize how ridiculous they sound, and delete the entire message. Gone—like I never even thought those things.
I quickly type: Hey. Saw that you called. What's up?
Shaking my head, I bury my face in my palms, peeking through my fingers with one eye as I go to delete that stupid message, and somehow, my fumbling fingers hit the Call button.
I panic and grab the phone. Just as I go to hang up, I hear the muffled sound of his deep voice come over the line, and I cringe, biting my lip as I lift the phone to my ear.
"Well, how about that. A call back from Miranda. How you been?" Jax says.
My heart goes into an immediate sprint, heat creeping over every last inch of my skin. "Good," I blurt. I take a breath, praying for my voice not to shake. "Got your message, and uh, I was just, you know, calling you back."
The waiter places the glass of wine on the table. I grab it and take a large gulp just as an elderly couple shuffles past the table, the woman talking so loudly I can't help but be distracted from the call.
"Glad you did. It's good to hear from you." He hesitates. "Given any thought to dinner?"
"Well, actually. I'm at dinner…"
"Wait, wait, wait… tell me you called me while you're out to dinner with EA Mercer. Even if you gotta lie, give me that win."
A small smile tears at my lips. "Yeah, I'm with the raging dick."
He laughs, and it carries loudly over the line. "Raging dick or not, I love his words. Reading his latest right now actually and wondering when I'm going to be able to get his next one. I heard he got himself a killer co-author. Wink. Wink."
I feel my cheeks heat, and I'm giggling like a thirteen-year-old girl. "Well, I'll see what I can—" I catch Edwin in my peripheral just before he plops down in the booth across from me.
He flashes me a smile as he smooths out his shirt, then he eyes the phone in my hand.
"Oh, hey, you know what, let me call you later. Edwin just sat down."
A snicker comes across the line, and it's now Jax who sounds like the prepubescent teen. "Did you really just call him Edwin? Un-fucking-real." He laughs. "Okay, okay, call me later.”
I hang up and slide the phone back inside my purse, my face still on fire.
Edwin's cheeks are flushed, his skin damp. "Sorry for the delay, I couldn’t find parking to save my life."
"Yeah, it's crowded in here." I narrow my gaze on him as I pick up the menu. "You okay?"
Nodding, he lets out a heavy sigh. "You'd think the nicest restaurant in this city would have some fucking valet. And a better-looking hostess." He laughs and motions back toward the entrance. "You see that fucking bitch? Obnoxious little one, she is."
"Uh…" I grimace. He's such an asshole and so disgustingly inappropriate. It almost makes me wonder how in the hell he's become so successful. "So what's good anyway?"
"What's good?" He recoils, curling his lip in disgust. "What are you, fifteen? Come now." He shakes his head as his eyes drop to the menu. He abruptly lets the menu fall to the table and grabs the top of my hand, giving it a squeeze. He has a saccharine sweet smile. "What am I going to do with you?"
My jaw clenches, and I clear my throat as I pull my hand away from his grip. "I meant, what do you suggest, Edwin?"
He doesn’t respond right away. His eyes are locked on his hand, now alone on the white tablecloth. "What do you think of our book?" His eyes trail up my body until they meet mine. "I mean really."
"I think it's good."
"Good? Just good?" he asks, no emotion in his voice.
"I mean"—I feel sweat building beneath my hair—"it's—"
"Because I think it's great." He smiles, pulling his hand back finally, clasping it with his other hand. "I think it's exceptional."
That's not what I’d expected. I'm almost taken aback by his compliment. "I really like it. I think the characters work well together. Our writing is complementary."
"I think you and I make a great team," he says. It's almost as though he didn't even hear what I said. "If this book does as well as I think it will, there's potential for many more after it. I've shared what we've written already with my publishers. Janine's read it too. They're all smitten with Ms. Miranda Cross." The crooked smile inching its way across his lips makes a knot form in the pit of my stomach. "As smitten as I've found myself." His smile deepens.
I swallow as an uneasy laugh makes its way up my throat.
He unlocks his fingers and picks up his menu once again. He opens it and hums as he scans the words. "I like the filet a lot, but really, you can't go wrong with any of the meat on their menu. They have an in-house butcher." A wry smile curves across his lips. "Cut fresh daily." Then he winks at me, his eyes locking with mine.
And it's in this moment I wish I were more practiced with social skills, more apt at figuring people out. Because in that stare, while he's attempting to make it warm, is something so cold and uncalculated. Or maybe, maybe that's a look of diverging motivations between he and me. I swallow, my eyes darting from his and down to the menu, which is now subtly shaking in my nervous hands. For some reason, I feel like small, helpless prey, and he's the hunter waiting in the bushes for the moment I step onto the snare he's so carefully laid out.
But, really, that's ridiculous…
“Ma’am?” The waiter stops at the table, his eyes darting nervously to Edwin’s seat. “Would you like to go ahead and order?”
“Yes, yes, we would,” I say.
He smiles nervously, jots down the order, and walks away. And I’m left here with Edwin. To awkward conversation and my own overactive imagination wondering exactly what he wants from me.