"Is that him?" Peanut guy says.
"Yes," I murmur. "It's showtime."
"For him, not for you," he says. "Just be yourself."
"Right." My fingers fly over my phone. I have a table inside.
"Good luck, kid. I'll be over here if you need me."
"Stop calling me a kid," I say. My nerves are flaring up again, making me lash out. "And don't look at me the whole date. That's weird."
He smiles wide, and I catch a hint of a dimple beneath the dark five-o'clock shadow coating his jaw. "Just signal and I'll give you a plausible excuse."
"Um, thanks. Have a nice evening," I say and head toward my table. My disgusting drink stands there, forgotten. I sit down and smooth my hands over my dress. I can do this. When I look up, I cast my eyes about for a man striding my way.
Instead I meet peanut guy's gaze.
He's leaning against the bar, glass in hand, and gives me the smallest of nods. There's a hint of a smile on his face.
The arrogant bastard.
But he's quickly eclipsed by the man who approaches me. This has to be Brian. Nina set me up with him, a guy from her old job. She promised he would be nice. That was the word she used. Nice.
He looks nice, I think, in a friendly sort of way. He's wearing a beanie that sits low on top of dark curls. He shrugs out of his denim jacket.
"Hey," he says. "Sorry I'm late."
"No worries."
He looks down at my drink, and a frown mars his face. "You've already ordered?"
Yeah, dude. I was waiting here alone for twenty minutes. "I did, yes. I hope that's okay."
He shrugs and sits down opposite me. "Sure, sure. So Nina told me you're a journalist."
"I am, yes. I'd love to work in investigative reporting someday," I say. Hopefully sooner than just one day, if the interview today had gone as well as it felt. I'd spent over two hours today at the New York Globe 's offices.
"So you write, like, these exposing pieces about government corruption and scandals?" He slouches in his chair, but his eyes glow with enthusiasm. This is promising.
I spin my disgusting drink around and nod. "I'd like to, at least."
"You know, I have a lot of opinions about the press."
"You do?"
He raises a finger. Almost like he's lecturing me. "You guys need to start reporting more on facts, and less with your emotions."
Um… "Yes. Well, reporting on the facts as they are is the hallmark of good journalistic integrity."
"Sure, but so often they don't. You know, I haven't subscribed to a newspaper in years. The facts I care about are all online. I can find them with the press of a button."
I rub a hand over my neck. "Well, a lot of people do that nowadays. Print media is struggling for that very reason."
"It's dying, more like it. But if you reported more on facts, you'd be doing better." He raises a hand, signaling to the waitress. "Over here!"
Oh, dude. That's not okay. My nerves turn to irritation instead. "Say please," I mutter. He doesn't hear me.
"I'll have a beer," he tells the waitress. "Easy on the head, all right? And not a wheat beer. Anything but a wheat beer." He turns back to me, like our conversation was never interrupted. "That's why a lot of people don't trust journalists anymore. It's not that hard of a job, right? Reporting the facts. Not like working in manual labor or, like, working at a brewery."
"Not as hard as your job, you mean?" I say. My hand is tight around my glass.
He shrugs and gives me a smile, like we're sharing a joke. "You said it, not me. Hey, I have a few stories you should write about. I'm sure everyone says that, but I'm serious. I think this could be good for you."
Oh boy. "Really?" I ask. "What are they?"
"I'm a member of an online community. We don't really tell people about it, but we share updates the regular media won't report on. I know exactly how you'll react-but listen with an open mind. Sasquatch was sighted recently, just upstate. Farmers in the area have been covering it up, and a friend of mine online has seen the FBI vehicles." His eyes widen. "This goes all the way to the very top."
I take a long, hard sip of my disgusting drink. Oh Christ, I think.
Over Brian's shoulder, I see peanut guy talking to a leggy blonde. Her hair falls in a wave over her shoulder and she has a hand on his arm. He says something and she tosses her head back to laugh.
At least someone's having a good time.
"This is a scoop," Brian says. "Could be really good for your career. I mean, if you want the help."
An hour later, I've still not found a way to escape. Brian just won't stop talking. About how my career could go in a different direction if only I had the guts to report the actual facts. His ten-minute monologue would be charming, if it wasn't such a blatant example of mansplaining.
He adjusts his clear-rim glasses-I'm starting to wonder if he's only wearing them for aesthetic reasons-and leans back in his chair. "So that's why," he says, "I had to quit that job."
"Because they didn't respect your initiatives."
"Exactly," he says. He looks like he's actually enjoying himself.
Probably because his date has mainly been listening to himself talk.
"But strong people like others who take charge. They recognize themselves," he says. His voice has gone weird and soft, and my stomach tightens up in nerves again. No, no, no. This is what I don't like. Turning someone down or having to rebuff them. Conflict-averse to the max, that's me. "Especially women," he continues. "They really like someone who knows how to show them a good time."
"I don't-"
He lunges across the table and presses his lips to mine. It's so unexpected I jerk back, but he follows along, his mouth like a leech.
And oh God, is that his tongue?
I don't kiss him back. I sit there, hands balled on the table, for two long seconds before I push against his chest. He leans back with eyes that are warm.
"Well," he says. "You're a good kisser, at least."
At least? At least? This man is unbelievable.