Page 6 of Tap Left
“Why have you been avoiding me?" he asks.
"I haven't." My eyes dart to the table, and Daire takes notice.
"Lola."
I decide it's better to make like a Band-Aid. I’ll rip it off and get it over with. "Tom and I broke up.”
I expect him to laugh. Rub it in my face and say I told you so. This is what we do after all. We go to battle and wound with our caustic words. But he isn't laughing. Or providing any feedback at all. He's studying me with his irreverent eyes. And I hate it when he does that.
"I thought you were getting married.” He leans back in his chair, pizza forgotten.
"He didn't have a ladle.”
It’s the only explanation I need to give Daire because he knows my mind. He’s familiar with my quirks and the way that I operate. He understands my flighty nature and my scattered habits, and he probably catalogs them all into reasons why he thinks he needs to check in on me.
"Everyone should have a ladle." His voice is smooth like a good whiskey should be. And I really don’t have a clue how to handle him when he’s not insulting me. It feels too easy. Too familiar. Like another night… in a galaxy far, far away. Maybe he feels sorry for me, but I want him to know it was my decision.
"I was rummaging through his drawers, and that’s when I realized it. He couldn’t even commit to a ladle, and I just couldn't be with a guy like that."
"Hmm..." Daire drums his fingers over the table. "You want to know what I think?"
"No thank you." I take a sip from my glass, and he continues anyway.
"I don't think you needed a ladle, LB. I think you needed a good, hard fucking."
I choke on my water. Daire smirks. And when I've recovered, I mentally kick myself for falling for that one. I came prepared. Daire never liked Tom. He's probably been hoarding commentary just for this occasion. But he surprises me with a serious question.
"So, what now?"
"Well, this doesn't change anything," I tell him, more for his benefit than mine.
I don't want him to think of me as the pathetic girl who couldn't even get her boyfriend to propose to her. It's important to me that Daire knows I'm just fine. I’ve always been very careful to project that image. He doesn’t have access to the hatred that runs deep in my soul. My cloak of civility is the only weapon at my disposal to shield him from what he really wants.
Another excuse to drink.
I shift in my chair and squeeze my fingers together. "I'm still getting married.”
His eyes cut clean through me. "To who?"
"I haven't found him yet," I try to sound confident in my explanation. "But I will. I'm going to give this dating thing a try. Play the field a bit, like you."
"Like me?" he mocks.
"Yes, like you."
"I don't date, Lola. I fuck. There's a difference."
The way he says fuck provokes an unwanted series of images in my overactive imagination. An army of blonde cheerleaders and Daire in his bedroom.
I shake it off.
"Whatever. I’m going to give a few dating apps a try. There was a girl in my yoga class who met the love of her life on Tap Left."
He makes a point to check out the waitress’s boobs when she delivers to the table beside us. "That's a stupid idea.”
"It's a great idea." My composure fractures and disdain seeps into my voice. "And your opinion doesn’t matter. You have no say in how I choose to live my life.”
His face tightens, and my cheeks burn in response. I probably shouldn’t have said that, but it’s par for the course. We take jabs at each other, and Daire always manages to turn me into the worst version of myself. I’d like to pretend that after more than a decade I’m over what happened and I don’t hate looking at his face, but we both know it isn’t true. Daire has some misguided notion that he’s responsible for me now, and at the end of the day, it’s the only reason why he’s here.
