Total pages in book: 58
Estimated words: 55738 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 279(@200wpm)___ 223(@250wpm)___ 186(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 55738 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 279(@200wpm)___ 223(@250wpm)___ 186(@300wpm)
“My mom is sixty-one,” I tell him. “I want to spend as much time with her as possible.”
Again, with that smirk. “Your mom is sixty? So she was forty when she had you?”
“Yep,” I say, grateful when the waitress appears. I reach into my pocket, taking out my purse.
“Please,” James said. “It’s on me.”
“No, let’s go halves.”
I don’t want him to think I owe him anything. He seems like exactly the sort of person to pout and whine when I refuse to give him what he wants. Maybe, in his mind, this date has gone well. Perhaps it’s leading to something more. All I’m thinking about is telling Lexi how terribly this date went.
After paying the bill, we head outside. “Well, this was nice,” I say. “I’m parked just down there.” I nod toward the nearby lot.
Big mistake. He beams and nods. “Me too. Let’s walk together.”
I don’t see any way to say no to this. Maybe I need to work on my social skills. Maybe? After this evening, it’s a fact that I’m nowhere near as forward as I could be. We walk toward the lot. He gestures at his car, a black racer-type vehicle with a few custom adjustments. “See what I’m talking about? She’s a beauty, isn’t… Oh, dammit.”
“What’s wrong?” I ask, my car keys already in hand, ready to get the heck out of here.
“Look,” he snaps. “I’ve got a flat. I thought I patched it up earlier. I don’t have a spare, either.”
“Oh,” I say, wanting to add, I really don’t care. “I guess you should call a cab and come back when you have a spare tire. Anyway, this has really been—”
“I’ll get my dad to give me a ride,” he cuts in, as he’s been doing all night, constantly interrupting me when I speak. Or try to. “Could you wait with me, please? Please? He won’t be long.”
The please sounds so desperate. I try to make myself say no, but it’s like the words won’t come out of my mouth. “Okay,” I sigh.
He grins and takes out his phone, but his demeanor changes as he brings the cell to his ear. He’s no longer the cocky, confident man he was just moments ago. His shoulders slump. He lowers his voice. “Dad, I’ve got a flat. I was wondering if I could get a ride. Yeah, I’ll text you the address. No, I don’t have one. I know I should. Yeah. Okay. Thanks.”
When he hangs up, the change back is just as noticeable. He swaggers over to me, standing so close I can smell his cologne. I make a point of taking a few steps backward.
“Did you have fun tonight?” he asks.
I really don’t think this is fair. I’ve made a point of being polite, but now he’s putting me on the spot. He’s basically asking me to lie to him. I wonder if most people in his life do just that: lie to his face about all his shortcomings and let him go on. I try to tell him, No, I didn’t. You were rude, selfish, and boring.
Instead, I let out a shaky laugh. I sound pathetic, even to myself. I’m not sure how to phrase this without hurting his feelings.
Thankfully, he doesn’t wait for a response. “Because I did,” he says. “I can’t believe I haven’t said this sooner. You’re beautiful, Samantha.”
There’s something rehearsed in the way he says it. I can imagine him saying this to many other women with the same tone and intonation and everything.
“Thank you,” I mutter, ensuring there’s a few feet between us.
Why don’t I just leave? My car is just across the lot. I wouldn’t even have to say anything. So what if he thinks I’m rude? It’s not like I ever want to see him again anyway. It’s as though some warped social responsibility is gluing me to the spot.
“I mean it,” he says. “Your figure… damn. Me likey curves.”
I have to go back in my mind to make sure I heard him right. Did he really just say, Me likey curves?
“I know some men don’t,” he says, “but to me, you’re perfect.”
“Thank you,” I say again.
He laughs. He sounds borderline maniacal. It’s like he needs me to reciprocate this somehow. I won’t say things I don’t mean just to protect his ego. I don’t think that’s fair.
“How long until your dad’s here?” I ask.
He scowls again. “A couple of minutes, probably. He was at the park. It’s not far from here. I don’t even know why he was there.”
“At a park?” I can think of ten reasons why going to a park is enjoyable, but maybe that’s just the artist in me.
“It’s a dog park,” James says, “but his dog was stolen recently.”
“Oh my God. That’s awful.”
“Is it?” James grunts. “It’s just a dog. I know it’s sad, but the way Dad’s acting, he’s lost his son. Lost me.”