Page 26 of A Very Friendly Valentine's Day
I don’t have a fucking clue what that conversation was all about. Does she actually think I’m lying to her?Now,all of a sudden, she doesn’t trust me? Now that I’m on my way to meet her? For Valentine’s Day?
That is not ideal.
I can’t just leave it like that.
I can’t text her again. Not after a passive-aggressiveface blowing a kiss emoji. If I call her, she won’t answer. I know she won’t. If I don’t call her, and I don’t text her, she’ll just get even madder. I’ll look more and more like a dick. And I am not a dick.
I have to ask myself what I always ask myself in these situations…
What would Declan do?
I know exactly what my brother would do.
He’d ask me what the fuck I’m doing trying to work things out with a model I haven’t even met in person when Birdie is in the dining car, waiting for me.
Fuck you, Declan.
But if he wanted to make sure a woman knew that he could be trusted—he would call her. Whether she answered or not. Just to prove that he wasn’t a lying asshole.
But Declan’s too old to realize he can just text her a voice memo. So, I record one. “Hey, babe,” I say in my most reliable boyfriend voice. “Just wanted to hear your voice in the outgoing message and I wanted you to hear my voice when I tell you that I really can’t wait to see you. And I can’t wait to talk to you. And I can’t wait to do all kinds of things to you. If you want to text or call me while I’m traveling, please do. I want you to. But I had to let you know that I might not be able to respond right away. Not because I don’t want to. Because it might be technically impossible for a while. I will check in on you whenever I can, okay? Have a great night. Talk to you soon.”
Send.
Boom.
And that’s how you do it.
There’s a tall, skinny guy with glasses pacing around the narrow hallway of the upper-level sleeping car, talking on the phone. He’s wearing a cashmere scarf knotted around his neck like a French chick. “Well, it’s not a fear of flying now though, is it, Bernard? It’s a preference for not dropping out of the sky and crashing to the ground in a massive metal death trap.”
British.
Pretty cool accent, very posh.
British glasses guy steps aside and rolls his eyes at me as I pass—as if I’d understand his plight of having to explain to people why he’s taking the train instead of flying.
“Cheers, mate,” I say to him, nodding. Because that’s what you say to British guys who wear scarves like French chicks.
“Indeed,” he says, and I can’t tell if he’s talking to Bernard or me. “Right. Sod right off, then.”
Well, sod you too, sodhead.
British glasses guy can kiss my great American ass. So sorry we won the Revolutionary War and stole your hottest women. Pip pip cheerio, then.
The dining car is about half-full. I spot Birdie sitting at a table across the aisle from a lady with short black hair and bright red lipstick. She looks like Mrs. White from theCluemovie. Birdie’s reading her Kindle and absentmindedly twirling loose strands of hair around her fingers. I love that she goes places by herself and just sits and reads. She used to do that on campus, and I’d sometimes watch her from afar—not in a creepy way. I was studying her. As an actor. We were actually assigned to watch people when they weren’t aware and self-conscious. In acting class. As an exercise. I’m dedicated to my craft.
I take a seat at the table, across from her and wait for her to notice me. She gets so lost in her books when she’s reading. Such a little nerd.
It isn’t until I pour myself a glass of red wine from the bottle in front of her that she turns off her Kindle, covers it and puts it aside. “Hi.” Her eyes are wide, and she’s grinning at me like she has something she’s dying to tell me.
“Hey. What’s up?”
“Nothing! They don’t have the whiskey or the beer that you like, but they do have Dewar’s Scotch. I figured red wine was a safe bet. I’m guessing you’ll order the steak.” She raises her glass. “Drink up.”
“Yes, ma’am and you are correct.”
She’s still grinning at me.
“What?”
