Page 17 of For The Record

“Whatever you say, then, Poppy Calliope Black, but I know you,” I say, grabbing my phone and shoving it into my purse. Then I step into three-inch wedges, teetering into a comfortable five-foot-ten. “How do I look?”

“Just like prom night,” she jokes. “I bet you he’ll even show up in a limo. Have fun tonight, Skye. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!”

“Yes, mom,” I say as I totter out of the bathroom and the apartment, grabbing a mini deodorant, a pack of tissues, and the apartment keys on my way out. “Are you going to take my picture?”

In response, I hear the click of her phone camera. “If you need me, I’ll be hiding in the hall closet, watching you leave.”

“You’re a creep!” I say on my way out.

Leo appears in front of my apartment door like a have-to-pinch-myself apparition, one dark curl slipping over his forehead and making him look unexpectedly boyish. It’s almost too cute, almost too charming in ways that bring out the last vestiges of my teenage self. He’s clad in jeans and a plaid shirt, like a nice Midwest boy who my dad might threaten with a shotgun if we lived in Oklahoma, he owned a firearm, and had met one of my dates in the past ten years.

“You look lovely. Ready to go?” Leo asks.

I nod. “Yep.”

On the way toward the parking garage, we make small talk. The weather, traffic, taxes, how many copies he expects Ryder’s album to sell. It’s definitely a different conversation from the time we spent together at the party, making me wonder if accepting this date was a mistake. Poppy would tell me to just accept a free dinner. I’d rather have time to myself than spend a free dinner with someone whose conversation is a few notches below stimulating.

We reach the parking garage. Leo Perez’s car is not the Ferrari, Maserati, Lamborghini, or even Porsche that I expected it to be. Instead, it’s a sturdy SUV, an Audi, and the only flashy thing about it is the colour: bright red. It’s definitely a few steps above my own beat-up Honda, but he’s more down-to-earth than I thought he’d be. Then again, I shouldn’t be surprised. He doesn’t really seem like a spoiled, rich frat-boy record exec who got the position through his family nepotism. But in a city brimming with maybe three types of guys (Bitcoin traders, too-handsome players, and creepy lechers), I might have found a rare one who doesn’t fit solidly into any category.

“Our chariot awaits, ma’am,” he says with a grin, flipping the keys in his hand before catching them behind his back. Then Leo repeats the motion and catches the keys in front of him. Even though I know he’s older than me, there’s a certain—I don’t want to say childishness, because that doesn’t sound quite right—I guess, a certain youthfulness to him.

I eye his moves. “Was that party trick part of your clown act?”

“You’re confusing me with a magician,” he says, opening the car door for me to get in.

The car’s interior smells like balsam and leather, thanks to the air freshener dangling from the rearview mirror. Leo puts a hand on the back of the passenger seat, his fingers brushing against my shoulder, bared by my green tank top. He turns around to check behind him as he backs out of the spot, even though he has a perfectly good camera in his car with a bird’s-eye view.

“So, what made you finally agree to this outing with me?” he teases.

“Oh, you know, nothing better to do on a Saturday night.”

“At twenty-five? The future is not looking bright for Gen Z.”

“We’re both millennials, and… Are you trying to live vicariously through me, old man?”

“I’m just trying to figure you out, but I guess five years is really an insurmountable gap.” The corner of his mouth quirks up. My heart skips a beat.

“Well, then, to answer your question,” I say, “I decided that people are going to gossip about me no matter who I date, so…”

“You might as well give them something good to talk about?” he jokes.

“This seems more like a cliche than some gossip-worthy news item, but essentially, yes.”

We settle into an easy conversation, any initial awkwardness dissipating. By the time we reach the restaurant, I’m feeling more relaxed than I have in a long time.

That is, until my phone buzzes, the same aggressively rhythmic ringtone that I’ve set for work. “Sorry, I have to take this.”

To his credit, Leo doesn’t go inside ahead of me. Instead, he patiently waits for me to finish my call, thumbing through something on his phone.

“Hello, Naoya, what is it?” I ask. I really, really hope he’s not in another drug scandal. That rehab thing barely blew over a year ago, and that was all hands on deck even when I was a mere intern fetching coffee and avoiding sexual harassment. Leo’s eyes meet mine, eyebrows rising.

“Skye! Thanks for picking up, I was worried you might have something better to do,” he says. I roll my eyes. He’s charming as ever, it seems.

“I’m actually on a date, but I picked up because I thought it might be an emergency.” I sigh. “And before you say anything, not knowing which club to go to or which girl to hit on isn’t an emergency.”

“Come on, Skye, you don’t even know what I was going to say.” Naoya’s tone is in the realm of ‘so smooth that butter gets jealous’, making it impossible for anyone to stay mad at him for long.

“I know that it’s not worth my time.” Only because I’ve known him for four years do I have the strength to speak to him like this. I’m sure anyone else would be cowering, but, really, at this point, Naoya Sugawa is more like an irritating brother who keeps forgetting to close the fridge door and drinks orange juice out of the carton. A very rich, famous, and influential brother, but still… annoying.

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