Page 35 of Don't Tell Me How It Ends
I’m typing out a text to Liv that simply readsChris Hansen—our long-shared predator alert—when Peeping Tom speaks again.
“This is my section. I’m gonna be taking care of you tonight.”
“Oh,” I say, my panic only somewhat assuaged. “Lucky me.”
—
One of the many unpleasant consequences of being eye-fucked by someone who still counts half birthdays is that what once felt like a sexy amount of cleavage now feels obscene.
I’m discreetly tucking my breasts deeper into my bra, whiledamning the broken system that demands I adjustmybody for a little boy who never learned the wordno,when bachelor number one’s approach stalls my adjustments cold. Unfortunately, this temporary paralysis leaves me palming my own breast. Worse yet, before my brain can scream for me toSTOP TOUCHING YOUR NIPPLE, YOU PERVERT,the nipple in question goes rogue—budding at the sight of him.
There’s no truly inconspicuous way to stop feeling yourself up in public once you’ve been caught, but unlike my waiter du jour, the man standing before me is respectful enough to avert his gaze. I use the moment of privacy to right my shirt and appreciate my dinner companion.
After four years with salt of the earth guys in the Midwest, my expectations for men’s dress options exist on a sliding scale that ranges from denim togooddenim. So you’ll forgive me the boardroom fantasy I indulge in as he shrugs out of his bespoke jacket, revealing a crisp white button-up that stretches in protest against his flexing pecs.
His blue eyes stare, unwavering, as he folds the discarded jacket over the back of his empty chair, before rounding the table to get to me. The smile he wears is both teasing and disarming. He’s stalking me, and I, the feeblest of prey, reach out willingly for him to pull me up from my seat.
I’d never admit aloud what it does to me when he holds my hand in both of his, taking control of the movement, butToto, I have a feeling we’re not in Kansas anymore.
The slightest tug at my hand invites me into his quick introductory hug. Against the contrast of his firm body and slightly stubbled cheek pressing into mine, my own body goes soft. I momentarily sink deeper into the embrace and the scent of his soap and something faintly spicy as it ensnares my senses. But he doesn’t linger. Nothing about the gesture is overly intimate and I appreciate that.
So far, he’s doing everything right. But then, because they simply cannot help themselves, he does the thing they’ve all insisted on doing since ancient man choked out his inaugural grunt—he speaks.
“Ryan Burgess,” he proclaims, taking his seat before I’ve found mine again. “I hope you weren’t waiting long. It hadn’t occurred to me that you’d beat me here.”
Thenhe chuckles.
“Fifteen minutes late seems to be the new normal for you girls. I’ve taken to building that buffer in for myself now too. Seems only fair.”
If he wasn’t so tickled by the many micro-misogynies he’s doling out, he’d see the physical effect his “joke” has on me—a verbal cold shower, immediately cooling any dull embers of attraction that had briefly sparked.
“The partner track doesn’t come with a work-life balance as it is, I’m afraid. I can’t afford to be kept waiting. You’d be amazed by how much I can accomplish in fifteen minutes.”
I ignore his smirk at the most unsexy sex reference ever uttered in favor of recalling the details of Ryan’s questionnaire. Now that there’s exactly zero sexual tension clouding my brain, I recall Zola’s brief rundown. Ryan Burgess is abox checker,as she put it. Great schooling (Yale, as I’m sure he’ll be announcing loudly and often), great prospects (on track to be his firm’s youngest partner), great future (in a Greenwich, Connecticut, zip code, no doubt). Unfortunately, as far as I can tell, he’s not a particularlygreatperson.
“You’re…” Ryan begins again, searching his Ivy League brain. “A teacher, right? So, you don’t have to worry about the whole work-life thing.”
This time my fiery glare finds its target.
“Hey, I envy it,” he says, backpedaling only somewhat. “That’s the way to go. My parents were already six figures indebt to Yale Law when I realized I’d all but signed my life away. Far too late to pivot to a job with summers off.”
Only used car salesmen and this fucking guy laugh at their own jokes this much. I’m sure of it.
“I’ve been out with quite a few teachers. I get the appeal. Not a field where you fall down the corporate ladder if you need off for weddings and babies and all that. It makes sense.”
“Actually,” I interject, and it’s only when the word hangs between us that I realize it’s the first I’ve uttered since Ryan stormed in—a sexy, egotistical tornado, sucking up all the air in the room. “It’s themenin my family who sparked my interest in education.”
Shit,I think to myself. I’m surprised to have made a careless admission on which I have no intention of elaborating.
But I should’ve known better than to worry about Ryan latching onto a thought that doesn’t center on him entirely. Instead, he cranes his neck to see over my hair, head pivoting as he surveys the restaurant.
“Where is she?” he says, mostly to himself.
I turn to follow his view. “Who?”
“The waitress.” He makes a show of checking his watch, as if he’s being kept from more important matters. “Now I have to apologize doubly. This time forhertardiness.” He says this as if his entitlement is somehow for my benefit. “Whenever she does finally grace us with her presence, please feel free to order anything you like. Zola mentioned you’re currently living at home? Tonight’s my treat. And thanks for waiting to order. You wouldn’t believe how rare that home training is these days.”
I check the restaurant’s perimeter greenery once more. I’m disappointed not to find Zo beneath the faux olive trees, filming what I’ve now come to hope is a prank. But my mood improves somewhat when I see ourwaitressreturning. Penis and all.
