Page 63 of The Art of Almost Losing It
The dog on my lap barks at the outburst.
“I don’t have to snoop on your phone to know your little fantasies.”
I don’t even like cinnamon rolls, but I snatch the half-eaten one out of the Grey Dove Bakery box and eat it in two bites. A show of dominance.
“We’ll tell people we met at a party,” Dani decides.
“Which party?” I counter.
“I don’t know,Graham—any random party. Don’t you have friends who throw parties? It can be at one of them.”
I don’t have friends, and the only parties I attend are thrown by family members.
She can’t know that, though. It still stings.
I’m a loner.As a public service, I think savagely.
“What about a party thrown byyourfriends?”
“They would have seen you there.” Dani’s dismissive. “What is it you do for a living? I’d call you a nepo baby, but you’re a little too hot for that.”
“Just tell people I saw you walking on the street and asked you out.”
“No one’s going to believe that.” She gives a hollow laugh.
“Well, yes, they will—that’s how people used to meet before dating apps and whatnot.”
Dani makes a face. She doesn’t look at me as she reaches for another pastry.
“What? Why are you making this so difficult?” I demand.
“Look…” She lets out a breath. “Guys who look like you don’t just see a woman who looks like me on the street,” she says in a rush, “and want to ask her out.”
“I don’t understand.” I frown.
“I mean, it’s not like I’d get cast to play Juliet in the school play.” She grabs my drink and downs the rest of it. “I’m just saying.”
I stare at her.
“That’s not true.”
“Yeah, it is, Graham, and you keep thinking that by calling me ugly and a loser and gross you’re really going to crater my self-esteem and make me take the payout, but you won’t. You should try taking lessons from my mother. Now there’s a woman who’s a master class in making me feel like crap.”
We sit there in silence for a moment.
“Anyway,” she says to the glass, “let’s just tell people it was a weird sex-club thing, m’kay?”
There’s another long pause.
“I saw you walking on the street and I wanted you,” I remind her quietly.
The ice clinks in the empty glass. I take it from her and go get her a refill.
“I need a photo—my mom’s been nagging me for them,” she says when I hand it to her wordlessly. “Lulu, do you want to be in it?”
She fusses, trying to get a picture.
I don’t smile, though I sort of want to at all the weird faces she’s making.
