Page 52 of Vicious Arrangement
I point my drink at him. “Not. Helping.”
He only shrugs.
“She’s even got this monster, a beast, a sofa-eating beast, and I still want to fuck her.”
For a moment he doesn’t speak, and then he sits up, drinks his drink, and says, “She’s got a dog?”
“If you’d call it that. It’s the size of Sasquatch.”
“While I find that hard to believe, I’m not sure what the problem here is. You want to fuck her and…?”
“It’s a problem.”
“Because…?”
Fuck, I don’t even know. I like her. She likes me. She’ll get feelings. I’m not that guy. So I change the subject. “I did notice you and Katie were into each other, and she didn’t run. What gives?”
“Nothing.”
I take a swallow of my whiskey. “What are you going to do about her? Ask her out? Scare her off, what?”
He chuckles. “I like her. She’s pretty and bubbly and kind and a whole lot else I don’t know and won’t. I’m not going to do anything. I’m a single dad, and that’s a whole lot of baggage, dude.”
I point at him. “Bullshit.”
“Are you listening to yourself?”
I get his meaning, but I deliberately misinterpret it. “Yes, and we both know I’m right. You put this off, Asher. There’s an excuse for girls, always, and then you come on overly enthusiastic, which, when they learn you’ve got a kid they run, but that’s just getting rid of the unworthy. She didn’t run. Bottom line is this.
“You’re a fucking great guy, Asher, and any woman would be lucky to have you. Now shut up and drink.”
It’s latewhen I get home, more than a little tipsy, but not quite drunk.
It doesn’t smell like food, and when I check the kitchen, everything’s pristine. Almost. There’s a water bottle sitting on a tea towel I didn’t even know I owned, sitting on the island, air drying and still a little damp. And there’s a glass upside down next to it, wet.
Doesn’t she fucking know we have two dishwashers? She doesn’t need to wash something, and I spot the small sleek chrome pumper that, when I press it, holds soap, probably for dishes.
Where the fuck did she find that?
There’s also a sponge.
I look in the fridge, but everything’s as neat as always, my meals untouched, the juice bottles full. I grab an orange juice and a green one.
There’s a packet of sad-looking sandwiches, one of which is half-eaten and in a fit of anger I throw it in the bin. There’s actual food. Why are those there?
But she didn’t cook, and there’s nothing to show she was going to.
I stomp up the stairs, and her light’s on, and I can hear her moving about. I turn to go back to my room and then I knock.
“What?”
“That’s rude,” I say.
“You’ve been drinking. And what’s rude is not texting me back. I thought I’d do you the common courtesy of texting to see when you’d be home because I wanted you to know if you were going to wait for me not to, as I was at work. I got home ten minutes ago. And I’m tired, it was a shit of a shift, and I should have known you’re not just an asshole, you’re just plain rude.”
“I thought…”
“What? I was chasing you like all the other girls? I’m not. You hit on me, not the other way around. You do. So grow up, Noah. You’re hot, but when you act like a prick, the looks get lost. And you’re pissing me off.”
