Page 5 of Butterfly Effect

Chapter 2

Where Are These Men in Real Life?

Gabe

I wantto stick this salad fork directly into my eye.

Or maybe I’ll stick it into the eye of Dr. Dan Briarstone, Ottawa’s Most Eligible Bachelor and orthopedic surgeon for the city’s professional athletes. It’ll be the most interesting thing to happen on our date tonight.

Hidden from view, I set a timer on the phone in my lap. If he talks about anything—literally, anything—other than medicine and his daily skincare routine in the next five minutes, I will give him a blowjob right here, in the middle of this packed restaurant.

The countdown begins as I force an unladylike yawn. Doesn’t seem to translate.

“I used to have spots on my cheeks and nose like yours” —oh, how nice, he finally said something about me— “not as many, of course. But I started using this Vitamin C serum and,poof! Gone. Turns out they were melasma. Highly recommend it to everyone with blemishes.”

Blemishes? Time’s up.

The relationship I have with my freckles is as complicated as the one with my mother. Freckles and the color of my eyes are all I have left of her. I’d cut all the other parts away, a necessary amputation in an effort for self-preservation, but it still aches like a phantom limb.

A deadpan look shot at him doesn’t seem to register, either. So much for being a genius. This dude is dense as lead.

I go for a tried-and-true tactic: groaning while scrunching my stomach. “You know what? I’m actually not feeling so hot.”

“Oh?” He grimaces, looking at my picked-at greens. “I bet it’s that dressing. Gotta watch out for those rich sauces. They’re so fatty.”

My eyes roll. Dan raises an arm to call the waiter over for the check, and I retrieve a card from my wristlet.

“We’ll split it.”

“Please, Gabe. Don’t insult me.” He passes my card back across the table. “I’ll take you home, too.”

Great.

This has got to be one of the Top 5 Worst Dates I’ve ever been on. Right below Mr. Drank-Too-Much-He-Pissed-Himself.

To others, Dan would seem a gentleman. Offering to pay for dinner, opening and closing the car door. But everything he does and says prickles my skin. He’s smug, self-involved, and borderline controlling. Barf. And how much should I bet that he’s still gonna try to get in my pants?

I pay absolutely zero attention to him on the drive through downtown, fake nausea slowly turning into real nausea with every swerve and screechy stop at busy intersections.

When we pull up to the curb, he jogs around to the passenger side, helping me out from the low ground clearance of his fiery red Mercedes. My bare arms prickle with goosebumps from the touch. His grip is too firm, a creepy, unspoken sort of persuasion.

“Let me walk you up.”

It’s a step beyond comfort. An uneasy noise hums out.

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea.” I hug my torso, milking the stomachache some more. “I’m still not feeling well. It won’t be a fun time.”

“I don’t mind.” He shrugs. Pushy bastard. “You might feel better in a bit. We could watch some Netflix, get comfortable…” His eyebrows waggle suggestively.

Yuck. No.

“…See where the night takes us.”

Cold fingers connect with the arch of my hip over the black fabric of my dress. I shrink away.

“I need to rest, actually. I’m traveling for work tomorrow, and I can’t be sick on the road.”

The doctor laughs with a shake of his head. “You might as well have said you don’t like me.”

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