Page 34 of Get to You
7
"You must be Samantha." I extend my hand out of habit. Instead of a handshake he envelopes my hand and lightly squeezes.
"Jess has told me a lot about you. Are you ready to get going?" He looks over at Beau who is even closer than he was moments ago. Nate's brow furrow. He looks back at me, "Am I interrupting?"
I take a step forward, away from Beau, while pulling my hand out of Nate’s hold. I don't want him touching me; it feels odd, unwelcoming. It’s not a good sign for my date or for disproving my theory.
"No, we're done here. Let me just grab my bag and jacket." I plaster a smile on my face, while I walk to my office.
Beau follows me, "You don't know that guy, and you’re just going out with him?" His tone speaks to his knowledge of my situation. I don’t like it. I don't know why it would matter.
I reply with a tad of cynicism, "That's the point, right? I haven't done this in a while, but I'm pretty sure that's how dating works." I don't care that I am mocking his concern. He doesn’t have the right to be concerned after storming out of my apartment the way he did.
"Well how do you know he's not just spying on you?" he spews nastily.
"That's pretty low, Beau.”
He snaps his mouth shut.
"Shit," he curses. "I shouldn't have said that.”
I nod, "You're right. I haven't told anyone about that shit in years, and now you throw it in my face, for what purpose?" He doesn't answer, but I wasn't really expecting a reply.
I put my jacket on and weave my purse strap over my head pulling my long hair out from under the leather strap.
I adopt a professional tone as I ask, "Is there something else I can help you with?" I almost want to call him Mr. Winchester, but refrain. He's never given me his last name anyway, I only know it from Facebook.
"I---" Beau starts, but he doesn't finish.
Nate steps past the door, "That guy Jude...he told me you'd be back here." I think he can tell something is going on.
Beau slams his stupid fucking hat onto his head and storms out without another word.
"All set," I say with false cheer.
It's only seven, and I want to pour the hot soup I was served over my lap for a reason to get the hell out of here. The small restaurant is quaint. There’s about ten tables total and maybe half of them are full.
Nate raises his hand for the third time to summon the waitress. I want to crawl under the table and bury myself in a hole. Nate asks her about the kind of bread used to make his sandwich, he tsks at her reply, and dismisses her curtly while he mutters aboutnot earning a tip.
He turns to me. I try, for the third time tonight, to not openly react to his rudeness.
He makes small talk, “Jess tells me you own the bookstore. Seems kinda cool you probably just hang out most of the day reading and stuff.”
I open my mouth to clear up the misconception but never get the chance.
“I’m working for my uncle right now. It’s not the best situation, but it leaves me enough time to work on Hidfield. That’s a game I’m coding.”
I take a spoonful of soup and nod my head as I bring it to my lips. Pretending to find that fact interesting. This is the seventh time he has mentioned his game. I imagine I would be more interested if he didn’t explain the process in technical jargon I can’t entirely grasp. When I do try to confirm a term or ask a question about the process, he dismisses me with a, “You can’t possibly understand.”
He's cute, I’ll give him that, in that nerd chic kind of way. Unfortunately, he has a number of cards stacked against him. I could excuse his behavior for first date nerves, but I can’t make an excuse for the way he makes me feel. I wonder if I hadn't met a certain someone a few weeks ago, maybe I wouldn’t be so critical of Nate. I'd probably enjoy his company more, possibly. I could probably even look past the fact that he openly complains to the waitstaff and has compared the food served to his mother's, through all the courses.
I drag my spoon through my soup, while he continues to dominate the conversation.
“Most people don’t realize how smart ferrets are.” I look up at his word and realize I have lost the thread of this conversation. “I’ve been training Croft since she was a baby, and she can pretty much do anything a dog can, but better.” I have no idea how we got to this topic.
I look at him, thinking he can’t be serious, but there’s no indication he’s joking.
“How long have you had him?” I interject, before he can continue.
