Page 2 of Female Fantasy
The baby quiets and sucks his thumb.
Job’s forehead vein begins to throb.
“Those dumb romance books you read have given you unrealistic expectations. And it’s not like you ever have time for me, anyway. Always writing your dumb flip-flops—”
“Fanfics,” I correct him.
Very popular fanfics, at that.
“Whatever.”
We’re in the final stretch now. I can feel it. He’s about to cut his losses and go home. Later, he’ll call his mother to cry and complain. If his friends ask what happened, he’ll tell them he ended things because he realized that he’s out of my league.I’m not hot enough. He can dosomuch better. Etcetera.
Good.
I’m fucking starving. The sooner he settles on this course of action, the sooner I get to eat.
Job takes one last swig of his beer, then attempts to look me dead in the face. Unfortunately, he’s pissed, so he’s a bit cross-eyed. I choke on another laugh.
“Face it, Joonie. There were always three people in this relationship: you, me, and Ryke.”
“No, Job,” I stand up and pat him gently on the head like a wounded animal. “There was only ever Ryke and me.”
That about does it.
Job blinks once.
Twice.
Everyone else returns to their own crises, bored with our antics. My phone buzzes in the palm of my hand. I think about the laundry I left unfolded on my bed, how many episodes ofLove IslandI need to watch before I’m caught up.
Job gives me one last desperate, pleading look.
I shake my head.
And he walks out the door.
Relieved, I sit back down and open up a menu. Minutes later, I flag down the waiter.
“Can I please have an order of fries and a carafe of wine?”
He nods, scribbling away on his notepad. “That was quite the show.”
“Sorry about that.” I wince. “Some guys just can’t take a hint, you know?”
The waiter smiles. I know exactly what he’s thinking.
I’m in on this joke.I am not like other guys. I am the exception to the rule.
I drink him in. The lean lines of his torso beneath his apron. The dimple in his left cheek. His sandy curls. He’s cute, don’t get me wrong. First-love-interest material.
But he’s no Ryke.
“Dining alone, then, miss?” he asks.
I smile and shake my head. “I’ve got company.”
The waiter walks away, confused, his brows furrowed and his head hanging low.
