Who is going to flip his lid when he finds out.
“Saturday is great. Would you like my phone number?” I ask, and then clarify, “Just to coordinate.”
He slides his phone across the table with the “new contact” screen open so I do the same and it feels weirdly intimate to give someone my unlocked phone. Typing my name, number, and email into his phone, a message comes through on the little notification preview and I’m quick to hand it back over before I can read further than:
Mom
How did it go?
Is she nice?
I hope you?—
My cheeks flame a little and I tuck my chin down as if I’m examining his contact in my phonebook.
But he doesn’t notice because he’s moving to stand, his phone dropped in his pocket. Our coffees are done and so is the interview now that we’ve reached an agreement. Bryce walks over to my side of the table and holds out a hand for me to take while dipping down off the bar stool.
It makes me think of that stupid scene in Beauty and the Beast, though that could just be because it’s such an old-fashioned thing to do that it reminds me more of a fairytale than reality.
Whoever his wife is, she’s lucky to have someone with good manners. The last time I went on a date they slammed the car door before I was fully inside and part of my dress got caught in it, flapping along for the entire drive. And then they rushed ahead of me into the restaurant, not even glancing back to see whether or not I was following.
Bryce and I stand like that for a second, my hand in his and my feet a little unsteady now that I’m back on solid ground.
“I’ll see you Saturday,” I croak and he drops my hand like it’s burned him.
“Saturday.” He agrees and then strides from the coffee shop.
And when he walks by the window, his mind on something else entirely and his gaze locked on the path ahead, he flexes his hand.
That was so hot.
Oh, I am in trouble.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck me.
And I kind of wish he wasn’t married so he would.
My phone buzzesin my pocket as I walk back to the parking garage, reminding me that I’ve ignored my mother’s text message. One I hope Rachel didn’t see.
Scratch that.Messages. I thumb through them as Dulaney passes me by, my mind on so much more than just downtown and all its memories.
Mom
How did it go?
What is she like?
Is she nice?
I hope you weren’t too nervous.
We love you.
Please pick up a gallon of milk and some toilet paper at the grocery store on the way home. Your father got sidetracked and forgot when he went out yesterday.
My mother’s little barrage of messages swirl in my mind and I don’t know what to say. Circling the block, driving aimlessly through downtown, I can’t quite go home yet. Not while I’m so keyed up and unsure of myself.
That was weird, right? Thatinterviewthat was barely one at all was the last thing I expected when she walked through the door in her business garb with her tidy braid and her heels clicking against the floor.
