The Fortunate Ones
Page 22
The stare he levels at me could slice through granite. It seems to say, If I wanted to steal your bike, I could just buy this entire country club.
“10-17-38.”
He puts in the combo, pops the lock, and proceeds to wheel my bike back in the direction of the parking lot. I’m left to speed walk after him again.
“What are you doing?”
There are a handful of members out in the parking lot, and every one of them is watching me trail after James as he steals my bike. They do nothing.
I finally catch up with him enough to try to yank it out of his hold.
“Give me my bike, James.”
But it’s too late. We’re back at his parking spot. He pops the trunk of his Tesla and pauses for a moment, assessing something. Then he leans down and detaches the front wheel with a few flicks of his wrist. Without it in place, the bike slides easily into the trunk space. He tosses the wheel in after it and slams the door closed.
I cross my arms. “Great. You’ve stolen a bike from a woman. What’s next? Gonna go steal those little tennis balls off some granny’s walker? Or what about a rattle from a baby?”
He chuckles, shakes his head, and heads for the passenger side door. “Get in the car, Brooke.”
I can feel people watching us, completely enthralled no doubt. Soon Brian is going to wander out and join the crowd. I don’t want to get in trouble for causing a scene in the parking lot, although truthfully, that’s exactly what I had originally planned to do. I just didn’t expect James to do it for me.
He opens my door, rounds the front of the car, and gets in behind the wheel. He doesn’t have to ask me to get in again; the empty seat taunts me enough as it is. I glance back to the clubhouse and seriously contemplate booking an Uber to get home. He changes radio stations, puts the car in reverse, and before I can truly acknowledge my actions, I get in.
Neither of us speaks for the first few minutes. I sit like a statue, my arms crossed in front of my chest, my gaze laser-focused out the front window. James, by contrast, has apparently reached the highest level of nirvana. He couldn’t be more relaxed. He turns up the music and drums his thumb on the steering wheel. I bet if I glanced over, I’d even find a hint of a smile.
He drives us down the winding drive and away from the country club. I could ask him where we’re going, but alas, I’d be breaking the silence first, and I will not lose this battle. Besides, I get my answer soon enough when he pulls up in front of 24 Diner at 6th and Lamar. I’ve driven by the restaurant a million times, but I’ve never stopped for a meal.
He didn’t even ask if I was hungry. He just assumed if he parked here and hopped out of the car, I would follow along after him—and what’s more frustrating is that I do. It’s getting annoying. I feel like a puppy or a victim with Stockholm syndrome.
“Table for two please,” he says to the hostess.
She leads us to a small booth in the back of the restaurant. James stakes a claim on one side, and I take the other. The waiter swoops down on us, and James speaks up for me. “We’ll take an order of the chicken and waffles.”
I peer at him over the top of my menu.
“I’m not hungry.”
I am, but if he’s going to be difficult, then so am I.
“That’s too bad.”
He takes my menu and hands it to the waiter along with his.
We’re left to ourselves. Silence descends again, and I can’t handle it. I’ve never been around someone so infuriating. Sure, first dates are awkward, but that awkwardness is usually felt by both parties. James seems totally oblivious. He’s staring off down the hallway past my head, content within his own thoughts.
So, I try to be too.
I think over what I need to buy at the grocery store tomorrow. Chicken. Maybe some of that fancy gelato I stroll past every week and try very hard to avoid. I remind myself to text Ellie about our SoulCycle class Monday—she has a tendency to forget about them unless I hound her. All in all, I think I do a good job of ignoring him completely.
Our food arrives and my mouth waters. I’ve had chicken and waffles a few times in my life, but it’s never looked like this. In the center of a large plate sits a perfect, golden waffle. On top of that, they’ve arranged four pieces of crispy fried chicken. The smell hits me before my other senses can even catch up. I want to fall forward and face-plant into it. That’s how delicious this food smells.
James puts a quarter of the waffle and some chicken onto a spare plate and pushes it toward me.
“I know you aren’t hungry,” he says, “but if you’re going to try a bite, I’d add a little bit of the brown sugar butter.”
He points to a small bowl off to the side I hadn’t noticed due to my waffle blinders. At this point, I’m drooling out of the corner of my mouth. I’m sure in some alternate universe, Brooke 1,342 stands up, flips the table over, and skips all the way home…but in this life, I swallow my pride right before dipping my knife into the brown sugar butter and drizzling syrup all over my plate.
I’m ashamed, and I do not meet his eyes as I fork my first bite into my mouth. It is, of course, a perfect combination of chicken and waffle and butter and syrup—all the main food groups.
It’s heaven on earth.
“Oh my god,” I moan before realizing what I’m doing.
I whip my gaze to James, and thankfully he pretends like he doesn’t hear me—that is, until I notice the little smirk he’s trying to hide behind his napkin as he wipes his mouth.
I ignore him, and just to be sure the first bite wasn’t a fluke, I take another.
My plate is cleared before James has finished half of his. I dab my mouth like a proper lady and then recline against the booth.
I watch him eat, studying the meticulous way he loads his fork. One bite of waffle, one bite of chicken, one small dab of brown sugar butter—if all the parts aren’t there, he doesn’t eat it.
I smile to myself and tuck away that bit of information.
“This is my way of apologizing,” he says, pulling us out of what could now be described as pleasant silence. Funny how that happens.
I glance up to find him studying me. Our eyes lock for one heated moment, and then he looks back down at his food.
“It doesn’t come naturally to me,” he continues.
“I would have never guessed,” I tease.
“It’s something I want to work on.”
I smirk. “No time like the present.”
He laughs, sets his fork down, and then leans back, hooking his elbow on the back of the booth. Reclined like that, he looks every bit the confident businessman, aloof and unattainable. “You’re right.”
I wait, and he continues, “I owe you an apology.”
I squint as if I’m thinking really hard. “Yeah, I still don’t think those are quite the words I’m looking for.”
“I’m sorry.”
“What was that?”
He clears his throat then leans forward like he’s about to divulge state secrets. “I’m sorry.”
The table seems too small now with him leaning toward me. While I probably smell like I just dipped myself in brown sugar butter, James smells like his woodsy cologne. I’m hyperaware of that scent and the way our legs are all but twined underneath the table.
“I accept your apology, under one condition.”
My smile is wicked and from the gleam in his eye, I can tell he likes it.
“What’s that?”
I pick up my fork and smirk. “I want another one of these. No sharing.”
…
After dinner, we don’t talk about where we’re headed next, but I think he’s taking me home. We head north on Lamar, away from downtown. In 10 minutes, he’ll drop me off outside the co-op and this weird exchange will be over. I wanted an apology from him, and now I have it. Beyond that, I don’t think there’s any reason for James to see me again. I don’t think we’re friends. He wanted me to be a pawn in his game, and I fulfilled my duty. Sure, I’ve wondered what would have happened that night if Celeste hadn’t slipped something into my drink. James and I might have enjoyed the party, and maybe at some point he would have admitted to inviting me to attend for reasons that didn’t include buttering up a potential hire.
“10-17-38.”
He puts in the combo, pops the lock, and proceeds to wheel my bike back in the direction of the parking lot. I’m left to speed walk after him again.
“What are you doing?”
There are a handful of members out in the parking lot, and every one of them is watching me trail after James as he steals my bike. They do nothing.
I finally catch up with him enough to try to yank it out of his hold.
“Give me my bike, James.”
But it’s too late. We’re back at his parking spot. He pops the trunk of his Tesla and pauses for a moment, assessing something. Then he leans down and detaches the front wheel with a few flicks of his wrist. Without it in place, the bike slides easily into the trunk space. He tosses the wheel in after it and slams the door closed.
I cross my arms. “Great. You’ve stolen a bike from a woman. What’s next? Gonna go steal those little tennis balls off some granny’s walker? Or what about a rattle from a baby?”
He chuckles, shakes his head, and heads for the passenger side door. “Get in the car, Brooke.”
I can feel people watching us, completely enthralled no doubt. Soon Brian is going to wander out and join the crowd. I don’t want to get in trouble for causing a scene in the parking lot, although truthfully, that’s exactly what I had originally planned to do. I just didn’t expect James to do it for me.
He opens my door, rounds the front of the car, and gets in behind the wheel. He doesn’t have to ask me to get in again; the empty seat taunts me enough as it is. I glance back to the clubhouse and seriously contemplate booking an Uber to get home. He changes radio stations, puts the car in reverse, and before I can truly acknowledge my actions, I get in.
Neither of us speaks for the first few minutes. I sit like a statue, my arms crossed in front of my chest, my gaze laser-focused out the front window. James, by contrast, has apparently reached the highest level of nirvana. He couldn’t be more relaxed. He turns up the music and drums his thumb on the steering wheel. I bet if I glanced over, I’d even find a hint of a smile.
He drives us down the winding drive and away from the country club. I could ask him where we’re going, but alas, I’d be breaking the silence first, and I will not lose this battle. Besides, I get my answer soon enough when he pulls up in front of 24 Diner at 6th and Lamar. I’ve driven by the restaurant a million times, but I’ve never stopped for a meal.
He didn’t even ask if I was hungry. He just assumed if he parked here and hopped out of the car, I would follow along after him—and what’s more frustrating is that I do. It’s getting annoying. I feel like a puppy or a victim with Stockholm syndrome.
“Table for two please,” he says to the hostess.
She leads us to a small booth in the back of the restaurant. James stakes a claim on one side, and I take the other. The waiter swoops down on us, and James speaks up for me. “We’ll take an order of the chicken and waffles.”
I peer at him over the top of my menu.
“I’m not hungry.”
I am, but if he’s going to be difficult, then so am I.
“That’s too bad.”
He takes my menu and hands it to the waiter along with his.
We’re left to ourselves. Silence descends again, and I can’t handle it. I’ve never been around someone so infuriating. Sure, first dates are awkward, but that awkwardness is usually felt by both parties. James seems totally oblivious. He’s staring off down the hallway past my head, content within his own thoughts.
So, I try to be too.
I think over what I need to buy at the grocery store tomorrow. Chicken. Maybe some of that fancy gelato I stroll past every week and try very hard to avoid. I remind myself to text Ellie about our SoulCycle class Monday—she has a tendency to forget about them unless I hound her. All in all, I think I do a good job of ignoring him completely.
Our food arrives and my mouth waters. I’ve had chicken and waffles a few times in my life, but it’s never looked like this. In the center of a large plate sits a perfect, golden waffle. On top of that, they’ve arranged four pieces of crispy fried chicken. The smell hits me before my other senses can even catch up. I want to fall forward and face-plant into it. That’s how delicious this food smells.
James puts a quarter of the waffle and some chicken onto a spare plate and pushes it toward me.
“I know you aren’t hungry,” he says, “but if you’re going to try a bite, I’d add a little bit of the brown sugar butter.”
He points to a small bowl off to the side I hadn’t noticed due to my waffle blinders. At this point, I’m drooling out of the corner of my mouth. I’m sure in some alternate universe, Brooke 1,342 stands up, flips the table over, and skips all the way home…but in this life, I swallow my pride right before dipping my knife into the brown sugar butter and drizzling syrup all over my plate.
I’m ashamed, and I do not meet his eyes as I fork my first bite into my mouth. It is, of course, a perfect combination of chicken and waffle and butter and syrup—all the main food groups.
It’s heaven on earth.
“Oh my god,” I moan before realizing what I’m doing.
I whip my gaze to James, and thankfully he pretends like he doesn’t hear me—that is, until I notice the little smirk he’s trying to hide behind his napkin as he wipes his mouth.
I ignore him, and just to be sure the first bite wasn’t a fluke, I take another.
My plate is cleared before James has finished half of his. I dab my mouth like a proper lady and then recline against the booth.
I watch him eat, studying the meticulous way he loads his fork. One bite of waffle, one bite of chicken, one small dab of brown sugar butter—if all the parts aren’t there, he doesn’t eat it.
I smile to myself and tuck away that bit of information.
“This is my way of apologizing,” he says, pulling us out of what could now be described as pleasant silence. Funny how that happens.
I glance up to find him studying me. Our eyes lock for one heated moment, and then he looks back down at his food.
“It doesn’t come naturally to me,” he continues.
“I would have never guessed,” I tease.
“It’s something I want to work on.”
I smirk. “No time like the present.”
He laughs, sets his fork down, and then leans back, hooking his elbow on the back of the booth. Reclined like that, he looks every bit the confident businessman, aloof and unattainable. “You’re right.”
I wait, and he continues, “I owe you an apology.”
I squint as if I’m thinking really hard. “Yeah, I still don’t think those are quite the words I’m looking for.”
“I’m sorry.”
“What was that?”
He clears his throat then leans forward like he’s about to divulge state secrets. “I’m sorry.”
The table seems too small now with him leaning toward me. While I probably smell like I just dipped myself in brown sugar butter, James smells like his woodsy cologne. I’m hyperaware of that scent and the way our legs are all but twined underneath the table.
“I accept your apology, under one condition.”
My smile is wicked and from the gleam in his eye, I can tell he likes it.
“What’s that?”
I pick up my fork and smirk. “I want another one of these. No sharing.”
…
After dinner, we don’t talk about where we’re headed next, but I think he’s taking me home. We head north on Lamar, away from downtown. In 10 minutes, he’ll drop me off outside the co-op and this weird exchange will be over. I wanted an apology from him, and now I have it. Beyond that, I don’t think there’s any reason for James to see me again. I don’t think we’re friends. He wanted me to be a pawn in his game, and I fulfilled my duty. Sure, I’ve wondered what would have happened that night if Celeste hadn’t slipped something into my drink. James and I might have enjoyed the party, and maybe at some point he would have admitted to inviting me to attend for reasons that didn’t include buttering up a potential hire.
