Page 23 of Let's Kiss and Tell

I hit send and then immediately follow up with another message.

Lucy Reid:

There’s a sushi place up the street or a new smashburger place that opened. It’s like a 5 min drive.

For the next ninety seconds I stare at our chat and wait for him to respond, but nothing. His icon then goes from green to gray and I frown. I pull up another tab and attempt to write but then see a notification in the corner of my screen.

Marshall Oakley:

Sushi sounds good. I can meet you there at 6pm. Looking forward to keeping the conversation going.

Well, based on his painfully sterile messaging style if anyone reads our chat, they sure as hell won’t suspect what’s going on. I react to his message with a pink heart, leave it at that, and make a reservation.

The silver lining about living in a big city like Los Angeles is that no matter what time you go to a restaurant, there will, without exception, be someone there. The Japanese spot in the middle ofthe Arts District is small and dark with black tables, red walls, and bamboo trimmings everywhere. It feels cozy, and from what I remember, their tuna crispy rice is worth writing a Yelp review for.

At 5:57p.m.Marsh walks through the door, his tall frame making him look like a basketball player who entered a preschool classroom. For some reason I look down at my phone in my hand and mindlessly scroll my text history, making it look like I’m preoccupied.

I feel his presence coming closer and closer and don’t glance up until he says, “Hey.”

“Hi.” I set my phone on the table. “How was work?”

“Oh, you know.” He takes the seat across from me and reaches for his tie. In one swift motion, Marsh pulls it undone, stuffs it in his jacket pocket, and then pops the top two buttons of his dress shirt open.

Forcing my gaze to meet his, instead of what little bit of neck is exposed, I laugh. “Rough day?”

“Just long,” he says.

“Oh, are you sure you’re okay to have dinner? We can always do—”

“No, no.” He adjusts in his seat. “Trust me, this is all I’ve been looking forward to.”

I smile. “Okay, if you’re sure.”

“I’m sure,” he says unconvincingly. “How was your day?”

“Long,” I echo him, and it breaks the stoic look on his face into one that’s softer. This is the Marsh I remember from the other night.

We end up ordering a pot of green tea and a combo of rolls and sashimi. As we wait for our food, Marsh leans back in his chair, taking a sip.

“So, I think I have to put it on the record…” he starts. “Just to be clear, I don’t do this all the time.”

“Pretend to date your co-workers or attend your exes’ weddings?” I say, and there’s that uncomfortable look on his face again. “Don’t worry, Marsh. I’ve done weirder shit.”

“Oh?”

“Nothing crazy, but it’s mostly for my column,” I explain. “I’ve put myself in many questionable scenarios for a story—all willingly, of course.”

“I guess that makes me feel better?”

“Okay, so”—I sit back in my chair—“tell me about this wedding.”

“What about it?” he asks.

“I know this is your ex getting married, there’s history…butwhydo you need to attend?”

“My family is going to be there,” he says simply. “I don’t really have a choice.”

“But you could technically be busy that day,” I respond, and he just stares at me. Clearly, he’s already run through that scenario. “Do you still have feelings for her?”