“Only compared to you.”

“What does that mean?” And now I’m the one who, to my own ears, sounds a trifle offended. What, I’m all giggles and unicorns? Nothing hardworking and intelligent to look at here, folks. Just another dumb blonde with rainbows in her head.

“You’re just very ebullient.”

“‘Ebullient’?”

“It means happy. Bubbly.”

“I know what it means. I’m just surprised that you do.”

“What, because I’m just a construction worker?”

“You’re Vice President of Land Acquisition,” I say, raising my glass.

“Not yet.”

“Soon,” I say. “He likes you a lot.”

“How ebullient of you.”

There’s another moment of quiet, and I find the courage to speak. But I’m also aware, despite my lubrication (in its multiple variations), that I’m nervous enough to require courage. Why is that? Brandon isn’t even my type. Yes, he’s hot. Yes, he’s ambitious, and I’m hardwired to melt in the face of ambition. And yes, he’s overcome some bad stuff, tripping my admiration for people who refuse to settle. But at twenty-seven, he’s a bit too old for me. He’s too serious. And there’s that beard.

“What is with the beard?” My eyes flick away and down as I ask. My hand comes up almost of its own will, and I realize I’m touching my hair, suddenly sure it’s out of place. My airheaded blonde hair, which almost certainly isn’t his type, either.

“I like having a beard,” he says, as if that’s an answer.

“Bullshit.”

His lips pull into a wide smile this time, almost like a joker’s. It makes points of his mouth. It’s probably a beautiful thing without all that hair in the way, but even with the beard I don’t mind. Beards scratch, sure. But Brandon’s looks soft, and it takes everything inside me not to reach out and see for myself.

“What?” I say.

“It’s just cute to see you swear.”

I’m sure I’ve sworn in front of him before. I also wasn’t shy at school, with my friends. But that’s a side I’ve been hiding. He’ll assume I was in a damned sorority if I let him down that road, and I definitely wasn’t. My friends went to crappy diners and dive-bar concerts. It’s definitely not my first go-round at being called “cute,” though, and more than once one of my male friends had to save me from a drunk admirer with a mohawk.

“Cute.”

“It’s not bad to be cute,” he says, apparently noting my tone.

“So you think that’s what I am. Cute.” It’s a trap question. Because of course he should think I’m cute, but he also shouldn’t.

“Sure,” he says, unabashed.

I’m not as offended as I should be. But if he says “sure” so easily, does that mean it’s what everyone else at Life of Riley thinks? It’s definitely what my father thinks.

“I’m more than cute.”

“I get that,” he says, the coat hanger smile still on his lips.

“I swear plenty.”

“Yeah? Let’s hear it.”

“Fuck,” I say.

His eyebrows go up. “The big one, right off the bat.” He sips. “That’s kind of hot.”

“I thought it was cute?” 

“It’s hot to hear you swear because you’re cute.”

I suppose this is a compliment. It’s also an uncomfortable one, and I’m not tipsy enough to miss the awkward part coming if we keep heading down this road.

Brandon leans back and twists his lips up at one end as if thinking hard.

“How do you know Johnny Rotten?” he says.

“Who?”

“John Lydon. The singer from the Sex Pistols.”

It’s a strange question. I’m sure my face twists a bit when I reply. “What makes you think I know him?”

“I saw a picture of you with him on LiveLyfe.”

My expression twists farther. “Why were you on my LiveLyfe?”

He looks suddenly embarrassed. “Oh. I don’t know. Job research.”

“You’re stalking me,” I joke. But something about the idea that he’s spent time looking me up makes me feel warmer than what I already feel from the wine. Now I really want to lay my hand on his knee. The restaurant is clearing out a little, and the empty space makes me want to kiss him. Nobody would need to know. But then again, that’s the kind of thing Old Riley would do. The action of a hormone-fueled teenager.

“I was looking up Life of Riley, and you’re connected, so I — ”

I decide to save him. “What’s Johnny Rotten to you?” I ask. Because the picture isn’t labeled; it’s just another upload I never bothered to caption. Who recognizes John Lydon today? This isn’t Johnny Rotten from the liner notes of Never Mind the Bollocks. This is Lydon as he is now, decades later. And that’s even ignoring that the Pistols’ heyday was before both our times. I can thank my vintage friends at college for introducing me to that old scene. But what’s it to Brandon?

“I like punk music. Well, all sorts of music, really. But enough to know Johnny Rotten when I see him.”

“He doesn’t even look like Johnny Rotten anymore. Would you recognize Sid Vicious, too?”

“I would,” Brandon says, “if he wasn’t dead.”

I raise my glass: trick question passed.

The waiter returns and asks if we’d like our wine and gasoline-scotch refreshed. We both decline, but I ask for more coffee. The waiter seems slightly annoyed that we’re still here, occupying the table, but scuttles off to comply.

“Maybe we should go,” I say, watching the bustling waiter. My bluff should be obvious because I just asked for more coffee, but Brandon doesn’t seem to see it. Good. Because I’d like to keep pretending I don’t want him, and maybe he’ll do me the courtesy of pretending he doesn’t want me.

This might be a mistake waiting to happen. I don’t think either of us is thinking clearly, but we’re definitely not drunk. It’s the perfect amount of inhibition, just right like Goldilocks’s porridge.

“I could call you a cab,” he says.

Oh. Right. I forgot that Bridget, in order to handle her “emergency,” took his car.

“Sounds like a pain.”

“Maybe an Uber,” he suggests.

“Also sounds like a pain,” I say.

And now I’m having to backtrack. Now I’m clearly the one keeping us here, given the way I’m rebutting all departure options. But he is too, and has been from the start; we could easily have taken our food to go and called two separate cabs (or Uber cars) straightaway. I’m not sure what kept us eating after Dad’s departure. Maybe it was a sense of obligation to get our money’s worth on my father’s generosity. Or maybe it was something else — something that held our silence long enough for a few glasses of liquid courage to loosen our tongues.

“Okay,” he says, that smile changing on his face. “I have an idea.”

Brandon raises his hand. The waiter, watching us, comes over. He has the coffee pot — a froufrou French press thingy — but Brandon puts his hand over my cup before the man can pour.

“We’ll take the check. Never mind the coffee.”

“And never mind the Bollocks either,” I say.

Brandon gives me a look as the waiter leaves. There’s a heavy moment between us.

Okay, maybe two and a half large glasses of wine is too much for a seldom-drinking girl like me. And consequently, maybe I shouldn’t play along with whatever Brandon has in mind.

But I’m young. It’s still early. And I find myself wanting to play.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Brandon

BRIDGET KNOWS BETTER THAN TO text me again. Her interference in my life and livelihood, this time, is unforgivably past the line. Not only did she maroon me at the table and steal my truck, she also duped Mason with what I presume was a decoy message left by one of her friends. She disturbed the dinner at which I might have received my promotion, all because of some misguided impression that I like this girl and need a shove for my own good.