Page 11 of Revenge Cake

“What exactly do you mean by that?”

My eyes roam his pretty face with those bedroom eyes and half-smile. “You just look like the stereotype of a handsome, dumb guy, but it has nothing to do with your actual intelligence. Your voice sounds dumb, but it has nothing to do with the content of what you say. You speak slowly, kind of out of the side of your mouth. It’s the most Southern California accent I’ve ever heard. I’m from the Bay Area, and I didn’t even realize our accents differed that much until I heard you speak.”

He narrows his eyes, as if considering my words, and I can’t help but notice that he only looks dumber.

“It’s not an insult,” I say. “People are drawn to dumb people, often to their detriment. It’s why Trump was elected, against all odds.”

He ticks his fourth finger. “And I’m like Trump.”

I roll my eyes. “I didn’t say that.”

He grins. “Leilani’s a super pretty name. I read online it’s Hawaiian.”

“It is.”

He stares at me with his brows raised, as if expecting me to elaborate.

“Are you Hawaiian?”

I sigh. “Yes. My mom grew up in Maui. My grandparents still live there.”

He grins. “I fucking love Maui, dude! Have you visited there a lot?”

“Yes,” I answer, averting my eyes from his.

I can’t have this. Now that he’s broken the ice, he wants to get to know me. He’ll want me to tell him about the summers I spent on my grandparents’ avocado farm in Hana and why I chose my major and what sports I played in high school. “This conversation is boring.”

His eyes widen a little. “Okay,” he says, but he sounds like he’s holding back laughter.

“This is what I meant earlier. I don’t want to talk to you about things like that. If I had any interest in dating you, I might make the sacrifice of stating autobiographical facts one by one. Since I’m not, I’ll only talk about things I find interesting, or nothing at all.”

“Okay,” he says, and this time I hear laughter in his voice.

It’s amazing how undaunted he is. No one in my life has ever reacted to my candor this way. He almost seems like he likes it.

“Look,” he says, leaning his broad shoulders into the table. “We can talk about anything you want. I’m just happy to be hanging out with you. I like you a lot, but I don’t want you to feel like I’m pestering you. If you want me to go away, I will.”

My eyes fixed on the table, I purse my lips, deciding whether or not to believe him. It could be a trick. He could be using humility to make me lower my guard. The problem is that I don’t want him to go away. I wish I wasn’t so drawn to him against my better judgment.

“I don’t just love superhero movies, by the way. I fucking love No Country for Old Men.”

I blink once, momentarily forgetting my earlier reference to the Coen brothers.

“I think it’s a masterpiece,” he continues. “And you were right—I’m probably not smart enough to say much about the Coen brothers, except that I fucking love movies about assassins, and Anton Chigurh might be my favorite of all time.”

I smile wide, impressed that he actually knows the name of Anton Chigurh. “No Country is definitely their masterpiece.”

He nods. “They make the best weed movies. I have probably five of their movies on my list.”

I frown. “Your list of…weed movies?”

“Yeah, it’s pretty straightforward. Just a list of the best movies to watch when you’re high. Or…I guess the concept is straightforward, but Armaan and I have gotten into some heated arguments about what goes on the list. He would say that No Country shouldn’t be on it because it’s hard to follow when you’re really high, but that doesn’t make sense because 2001—the Stanley Kubrick movie—is the holy grail of weed movies, and I’m not a hundred percent sure I even know what it’s about when I’m sober, and I’ve seen it like a hundred times.”

“You’ve seen 2001: A Space Odyssey a hundred times?” When he nods, I ask, “Do you like any other Stanley Kubrick movies?”

“Oh, hell yeah!” He frowns, as if offended by the question. “I fucking love Stanley Kubrick. The Shining is the greatest horror movie of all time, and the second-greatest weed movie.”

I stare at him, arrested. I realize I must be insulting him by my shock, but I never expected to be so thoroughly entertained. Or to share his taste in movies.

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