Party Girl_ A Novel - Anna David [18]
“I…I…” I want to be able to say, “I only think of you as a friend” but I can’t seem to get that sentence out. Because the truth is I don’t think of Chad as anything even close to a friend. And besides, I’m sitting here at The Little Door, a decidedly romantic restaurant, splitting probably a $75 bottle of wine with him. And, though I’m going to do the after-dinner wallet reach, I’m going to expect him to pay and be horrified if he has the audacity to accept my offer to go dutch. So what should I say to him—that I only said yes because I couldn’t think of a reason to say no, and besides, I’m so terribly lonely that at least this “date” would help me believe I’m not completely cut off from the human race?
“I’m not really ready to get into anything now,” I manage.
I expect Chad to have that disappointed-but-hiding-it look that most guys get when they understand that they’re out roughly $200 and probably aren’t getting laid. But something seems to have been lost in the translation, for Chad’s smile widens.
“See, that’s what I love about you.”
“What?” This is so not good.
“You’re so straightforward, so direct,” he says. “Most women don’t ever say what they mean but you always do.”
I’ve often been commended for this quality, which usually confuses the hell out of me, as I almost never say what I mean. If, comparatively speaking, I’m clearer than other women, I feel truly sorry for the male race.
“I’m not sure if I’m being direct enough—” I start to say but Chad cuts me off.
“You were perfectly direct. And the last thing I’d ever want to do to you, or any other woman, is rush her. We’re just here to get to know each other better.” He ends that ridiculously optimistic response to getting blown off by holding up his glass and motioning for me to pick up mine. “Cheers?” he says.
I dated a guy in college who was obsessed with cheering. Coffee, glasses of water, milk—every liquid short of spittle was worthy of making a special moment out of. And, well, I’ve just never really been a “Cheers” type of person.
But, what are you going to do? I tried to explain my feelings to Chad but his blinding insistence on his ability to agent me over to his side means my point hasn’t a hope of getting through. So, as far as I’m concerned, I’ve done my part and can now eat and drink guilt free. What’s another hour of my time? I lift my glass and clink his with a smile.
“Cheers,” I say.
As Chad pays the check—the-move-the-bill-to-his-side-and-shake-his-head-as-I-start-to-object move—I start worrying about how I’m going to get out of this night’s good-night kiss. No matter how many people tell you that just because a guy’s taken you to a nice dinner, he doesn’t think you owe him some tongue at the end of the night, those few moments of horribly awkward conversation about how delicious the chicken was or how early yoga starts tomorrow morning say otherwise. As I’m debating whether it might be less awkward to simply make out with him for a minute and get it over with, Chad suggests we go somewhere else for a drink.
I shake my head, calculating that if I have to make small talk for another hour, I may peel all of my cuticles off my fingers out of anxiety and general unhappiness.
“What about Guy’s?” Chad asks, hitting a soft spot. It’s the one bar in L.A. that I actually like and it’s so tough to get into that being a girl doesn’t even help. “I’m on the list.” I’m sort of surprised that Chad has the cachet to pull off Guy’s, but I shouldn’t be. The doorman probably dreams of being the next Johnny Depp, and is under the mistaken impression that Chad can help make that happen.
During the car ride over, Chad gets on his cell phone, which would normally horrify me but I’m actually grateful to the person on the other end of the phone for saving me five more minutes of pretending to seem interested. It seems to be another agent on the phone, because I’m hearing Chad talk about Ashton and packaging fees and Orlando Bloom in a way that I can tell he thinks might impress me. And,