Page 85 of Rock Bottom Girl
Smitty’s was always busy on Saturday nights, but I wrangled a small table in front of the window overlooking Main Street. Marley hopped up on the stool, putting her back to the room, and opened the menu.
“So? How am I doing so far?” I asked, taking the seat across from her.
“You picked me up, were nice to my parents, complimented me on my outfit, brought my mom and me flowers, and didn’t run screaming from Dietrich. I’d say you’re nailing this date.”
“When you say nailing—”
She smacked me over the head with her menu. “Funny guy.”
I picked up my own menu and browsed. I wasn’t a “same thing every night” kind of guy. Mixing it up was more fun to me than consistency. One night it was hot wings. Another night it was beef and broccoli. Sometimes, for the hell of it, I went for a salad or threw caution to the wind and ordered the greasiest pizza I could find.
Marley was looking around us at the Saturday night crowd. Tentatively, she raised her hand at someone across the bar and smiled awkwardly. Then looked away just as quickly.
“This is weird. I actually know half of these people,” she whispered, picking up her menu and hiding her face.
“Welcome to small-town America.”
“You know, there’s something to be said for being a stranger to everyone,” she said, dropping the menu again.
“You’re nervous.”
“I’m not nervous. I just feel…exposed.”
“Why?” I was intrigued.
“Because most of these people remember my horrible, awkward, humiliating teenage years.”
“What was so horrible, awkward, and humiliating about your high school career?” I wondered.
She gave me a long look. “Homecoming our senior year? Does that ring any bells?”
“I think I remember Homecoming differently than you do. I remember a scrappy senior who had been pushed around one too many times and took things into her own hands by—”
Leaning across the table, she slapped a hand over my mouth.
“You know what? That’s not first date conversation. Make some small talk.” She removed her hand.
Women were strange. Pretty, smooth, fascinating, and strange.
“How ’bout them Steelers?” I asked cheerfully. Marley rolled her eyes.
“Hey, guys.” A waitress materialized next to the table. “Can I get you something to drink?”
We ordered beers, and I threw in an appetizer request for a basket of onion rings. When she left, Marley carefully avoided making eye contact with me and everyone else in the place.
I covered her hand with mine. “Look, for what it’s worth, I’m sorry if I did something that hurt you in high school.”
She looked at me like words were clawing their way out of her throat. But she reined it in, kept a lid on it. “We all did incredibly stupid things in high school,” she said quietly.
“Okay.” I waited. She stared at her menu for a solid minute.
“So, on a first date,” she finally said, “you want to focus on getting your date to talk about herself and file as much of the information away as possible. You can tell a lot about a person by how they talk about themselves.”
“So, Marley. Tell me about yourself. If you won the lottery, what would you do with the money?”
She laughed approvingly. “Nice question.”
I tipped my head all princely like.
