Текст книги "The Boss's Daughter"

Автор книги: Aubrey Parker

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Текущая страница: 7 (всего у книги 15 страниц)

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Brandon

LOOKING BACK, IT WAS PROBABLY a bad idea to prep Bridget for this dinner. Usually, I set expectations, like parents do for kids. Usually, if I don’t give her a primer on who we’ll be meeting and what they’re like – and hence how they might take offense to her unique and unvarnished brand of truth telling – she ends up embarrassing someone.

Not her.

Not me.

But whomever we’re talking to.

Her friends and our mutual friends know Bridget and have forgiven her. There’s a dip in any relationship with Bridget near the beginning, when most people don’t like her. But those who survive the dip without writing her off always come to love her. It’s a trial by fire.

I didn’t particularly want her doing that to my boss, who seems inches from promoting me to a better life, assuming I don’t screw it up. Or to his daughter, about whom someone like Bridget might see and announce many truths. Like maybe she’s a little too spoiled. Like maybe she should come down from her perch. Like maybe she’s too cute to be taken seriously and should … I don’t know … get some librarian glasses or something.

These are things Bridget will tell people she’s just met, straight to their faces. And she’s usually right, but nobody likes her for saying it. At first.

So I prepped her. I told her to keep her mouth shut in my most authoritative, please-don’t-ruin-this-for-me brotherly voice.

Like a blind person who finds her sense of hearing vastly improved, I’m sure prepping Bridget between her place and the restaurant only allowed her to become critical with a superhero precision.

And now she’s rising from the table. Giving me a little knowing smile. Offering Riley the same smile, as if this is all so obvious.

Ten seconds later, I realize she’s taken her purse. Suddenly, I’m terrified – I know exactly what my sister is up to.

“I’m … will you hold on a second?” I say to Riley, holding up a waiting finger.

Riley’s eyes are wide, and her mouth is a straight line. Like I’ve been setting off loud fireworks at the table instead of asking one little question. She nods, and I rush off after Bridget. Ironically, I hear Mason talking to his friends at the other table, telling the man jokingly that his (wife? girlfriend?) has never had a conversational filter.

Just like Bridget.

Who, robbed of her social weapons, seems to have adapted. Again like a superhero, bent on costing me this promotion in the interest of something she deems as more worthy.

I grab her arm halfway across the restaurant. My goal was to catch her before she reached the car and drove off to leave us alone, and I realize I’ve succeeded splendidly. For one, Bridget didn’t drive; I did. For another, she’s headed to the restroom.

She looks back at me, her eyes lit with curses. Not because she’s mad but because she feels the need to be vaguely insulting.

“Where are you going?”

She points at the restroom door.

“Why?”

She crosses her legs and pantomimes a bad need to urinate, complete with a nervous little dance. I’m sure several of the finely dressed diners at nearby tables are staring.

“I know exactly what you’re doing, Bridge. Don’t.”

She shrugs as if to say, I have no idea what you’re saying. Dumbass.

I watch my sister closely. I may be looking at her with only one eye, with that eyebrow raised. This feels like that sort of assessing moment, and the kind of look Bridget would give me if our roles were reversed.

She repeats her peeing pantomime for emphasis.

But my head is back in the truck on the way over. And on the short walk from the city parking lot to the restaurant because I didn’t want it valeted. I’d begun those discussions as discussions, not seeing them as monologues until later. Not quite remembering all the little knowing looks Bridget gave me through my speech, as if she was plotting something devious.

I know I told her about Mason. I might have told her how much I like the guy now that I’m getting to know him a bit. I doubt I told her that he feels a bit like a father because that’s surely my damage, having grown up without one. I know I told her how important it was to me that Mason liked us both. I didn’t tell her how dire my situation was because her surgery caused it and I don’t want her to feel guilty, but I’m sure I told her how badly I wanted the promotion and all it might do for me. For us, because Bridget and I have been the Two Musketeers since we were twelve. She’s the only one I’ve ever been able to count on, and I’m the only person she’s ever fully trusted.

And I know I told her about Riley – but right now, in front of the bathrooms with a dozen highbrow diners eyeing us, I can’t recall exactly what I said. Between the two of us, Bridget is usually the motormouth. But I must have cracked like a dam in her silence. I’m not used to doing that.

I told her Riley was the boss’s daughter. I told her that the company was named after her, and that the big man seems to dote on her more than Riley might want him to.

And I told her about our morning together. I told her that Riley was sent to pick me up. And dammit, I told her about the dress Riley had been wearing. In my mind, the point had been that she’s inappropriate and not ready for any big chairs, but I think Bridget took it wrong.

Just like she misinterpreted my explanations of our trip to the creek.

Just like, if I mentioned my dreams like I probably had, she’d have taken that wrong, too.

When we’d been walking here from the lot, I’d summed it up by saying, Don’t say anything stupid to Mason. Or to Riley. Bridget had whispered, “I won’t say a thing.”

She’d put emphasis on “say.”

And she’d smiled when I’d said “Riley.”

“It’s not your job to fix me up, Bridget.”

Bridget stabs her finger at the restroom, still crossing her legs theatrically beneath the long and elegant dress bought for her by a grateful client last month in Seattle. She crosses her eyes. Bugs out her tongue. It’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever seen.

“I’m serious.”

“I just have to pee,” she whispers.

Dammit. Bridget is a master at this. I came over here 99 percent sure she was trying to take the truck and run so I’d be forced to hang out with Riley alone. By the time I realized she’d arrived at the restrooms, I’d dropped to 90 percent sure, but this time that she was simply trying to force us to sit at the table alone while Mason was chatting, which would surely be a while. A minute ago, I was 70 percent sure that this was all a ruse, and that she was setting me up now for a long con intended to pair me with Riley later.

And now I’m only 50 percent sure. She’s making me feel stupid for waylaying her. She’s just going to the goddamned bathroom, after all.

Except that this is Bridget, and she’s always trying to force me into uncomfortable situations “for my own good.”  It’s not the first time she’s played innocent before blindsiding me. She says I’m broken inside and that while I shouldn’t expect a relationship to heal me all at once, having a girlfriend for more than a night would shove me in the right direction and heal me a bit at a time.

“You don’t get to make my decisions.”

Bridget starts hopping on one leg.

“She’s my boss’s daughter. And no matter what you seem to think, I’m not the least bit interested. She’s not my type. She’s a spoiled little girl. The kind we always used to make fun of.”

Bridget gives me a final condescending look and hops into the restroom like she’s crippled. She almost topples an old woman who’s on her way out, but she never breaks character. Bridget keeps hopping until the door is closed, and then it’s just me and the old woman, her glaring at me like I’m a pervert.

I head back to the table. Mason is still sitting with Ebon Shale and his date. I realize that Ebon also has a stone word in his name, like Mason. I’d been sitting between Bridget and Riley, but with the other two gone we look like a couple. There’s even a candle on the table and a concerto in the air.

I glance at Riley. She gives me an awkward smile and looks away.

Her hand, however, is there on the table.

I want to take it, and disobey every molecule of common sense.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Brandon

MY PHONE BUZZES WITH A text from Bridget.

I’m trying to be covert, but Riley is looking right at me. She can’t see the screen, thank God. I find I don’t want to leave her eyes to look down, but this is something I can’t let stand.

The message says, She sure is pretty.

I sense a digital slapfight approaching. Bridget and I didn’t have a typical parenting experience, but there were times when our mutual foster parents drove us somewhere or other. It was the scene we all know: Bridget would poke me. I’d complain that she wouldn’t stop touching me. Our foster father, Sam, would bellow that he’d turn this car around if we didn’t knock it the hell off.

I text back, What’s taking you so long? She’s been gone for over five minutes. That shouldn’t seem like a lot, but it is.

I had chili for lunch. 

She’s such a delicate flower. Men are always drooling over my sister, but it’s not hard to knock the losers away. They’re infatuated because of how she looks, but they don’t know her. It takes a resilient man to take Bridget’s intense sarcasm and general grossness. Unfortunately, Keith was one such man. I should have known he was trouble when Bridget stopped making fun of me, stopped jabbing me, stopped trying to get me a decent woman so that I’d stop being “a total bachelor asshole.” But I was busy and kept justifying Keith’s behavior – and Bridget’s. But she got quiet. Subservient. She folded his goddamned socks. Then he started hitting her, and still it continued for months until she finally called me from the hospital.

I slip the phone back in my pocket. I put my hands on the table, near Riley’s, and actually begin twiddling my thumbs before realizing that I should really knock it off.

My phone buzzes again.

She’s into the same music as you and likes to hang out at that Overlook place.

Before I can put the phone away again, she sends another: Oh, wow. She fucking does krav maga.

I recognize that term for two reasons. One, it’s a martial art I want to study one day. And two, it falls neatly into the category of facts that nobody discovers about another person in a bathroom stall.

I look up at Riley. She’s looking right at me. She still looks nervous, but Riley with jitters is somehow compelling. She looks like a frightened animal, but one who’s stepped past her fears to face them. It’s vulnerable and bold at once. I want to admire her. And protect her.

My phone says, Holy crap, Brandon. Check this shit out. I wonder what that’s supposed to mean, but then she texts me a photo, and I see Riley with an older man’s arm around her, both of them smiling broadly. It takes me a few minutes to realize who it is because I’m used to seeing this particular man in his twenties, on album art.

And Bridget sends, JOHN FUCKING LYDON. 

Riley leans toward me, her expression peacemaking. We had a nice morning last week until things got weird, and the distance between us now is definitely strange. But there was no war declared, and it’s odd to see her wanting to make nice so that we can fix it.

“Who’s texting you?” she asks, trying on a smile that seems too small.

“I’m sorry.”

“No, it’s fine. What’s that picture?”

I clasp the phone to my body, realizing only a second later that it looks like I’m hiding porn. Riley seems almost hurt, so I blurt, “It’s personal.”

“I’m sorry,” she says, slinking back.

“Not like that. It’s just … ” I search for a nonoffensive lie, loath to admit that my sister is texting from the bathroom in an attempt to hook me up with the girl who could ruin everything I’m hoping to build. “It’s a photo of a work in progress.”

I have no idea what that means. I imagine an artist working on a painting that’s not yet ready for public viewing. I don’t even know any fucking painters.

“Artists.” I smile. “You know. They don’t want anyone seeing their stuff before it’s done.”

“Oh.” Riley looks like she doesn’t believe a word.

You should see how her ass looks in a bathing suit, Bridget texts. I brace, but she doesn’t send me that photo – from wherever she’s getting them.

“I … I need to reply.” I glance at Mason, who’s oblivious. “I’m so sorry.”

“No big deal,” she says. But Riley looks hurt because she knows I’m lying.

I look at my watch. Ten minutes now. I stab at my phone and text Bridget, GET OUT HERE RIGHT NOW. 

I’m looking at LiveLyfe photos. 

You can look at photos later!

It will be easier once I get back to my place.

My blood turns to ice. She’s on LiveLyfe. Looking through Riley’s photos to see if we’re a good match. And I’m suddenly sure, knowing Bridget and the time she’s taken, that she’s not in the bathroom at all.

My hand, as if it’s way ahead of me, starts slapping at my pockets.

My keys are gone.

Because this is my house jacket, and the pockets don’t open. I put my keys in Bridget’s purse. Which she took with her into the restroom. Before, presumably, she walked out the restaurant’s front door.

Tell me you’re in the bathroom still, I text.

Okay. I’ll tell you that if you want.

And before I put the phone away, Bridget texts, Don’t be surprised if Mason gets an urgent text in a few minutes.

And, finally: Trust me. XOXO. :)

At the next table, I watch Mason pull his phone from his pocket.

“Goddammit,” I mutter.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Riley

I DON’T KNOW WHY BRANDON is suddenly in some sort of a text war, or why he feels the need to do it right here, right now. He certainly wouldn’t dare if my father was at the table.

I know he’s not doing it to insult me, but knowing that he’d only respond to texts at this fancy table – where the company will be picking up the tab – while I’m the only one sitting with him is hard to square with the whole not-doing-it-to-insult-me thing.

He does apologize, but it’s such bullshit. It’s a get-off-the-hook apology. It’s a social trap. He wants to text, so he apologizes and says it’s urgent. What am I supposed to say? I have to say it’s okay, no big deal. And now, that acceptance means I’ve forfeited my right to be pissed … though after he gets a photo he won’t show me, it’s hard not to be.

I’m suddenly, vividly certain that he’s making fun of me.

I have no basis for this. No reason to believe it. But given that his bumblings about an artist and a work in progress are clearly lies, there must be another reason he won’t show me whatever it is. His guilty look, when he barely meets my eyes, only drives the certainty deeper. If it’s not directly about me, it’s absolutely something that I – not just anyone – am not supposed to see.

Is it a girlfriend, sending him a nude snap? That’s the kind of thing a guy would clutch to his chest and get all red faced about in public. But then why do I get the distinct impression that he’d show others, and it’s specifically Riley James who’s not supposed to see?

I’m being paranoid. I’ve never been especially comfortable in places like this. I can’t really be arm candy to Dad because that role is reserved for dates, but I’m still an accessory, like a purse for a man. Dad wants to show me off, fresh from college. And you can’t be shown off while also being dealt with as an equal.

I shouldn’t have worn this dress.

And if I’d known that Brandon would be here ahead of time, I don’t think I’d have come.

That asshole.

Who thinks it’s okay to have idle chats with his buddies while I’m right here. While he’s been sitting a foot away, not so much as glancing in my direction more than a time or two. Like he’s annoyed that I’m here because this was supposed to be man to man. Dad already said Brandon is the guy he wants for the VP job, so this is just the last test – the final effort to make sure that Brandon can play the role now that Dad’s decided.

I wish he’d just tell him already. Get this over with so I can stop wondering whether Brandon should be my boss or not, and at what level.

Dad shows up, to my left and Brandon’s right. But there’s no seat between us, and he was on my other side. He’s making no move to take his seat, or sit down.

He sets something on the table. It’s a credit card, cobalt, with a finish that’s not glossy, but matte like satin. And of course he’s put it in front of Brandon, not me. Not his daughter, whose name is literally on the card, in the company position.

“I’m so sorry,” he says. “I have to leave.”

Brandon looks disappointed. I suppose he was expecting final word on his promotion, and now he sees he’s not about to get it. Following the text debacle, this makes me spitefully happy. Let him keep waiting. God knows, I still am.

“What?” I ask. “Why?”

“It’s a business thing. Margo heard from one of our people who … well, don’t worry about it. I’ll tell you tomorrow.” His face tries softens, but I can tell this bugs him – not because he wanted dinner, but because he’s running out on me. And at least there’s that. Dad and Brandon have been ignoring me and Brandon’s sister to talk about stuff that orbits the company without actually being business, but when it comes down to it, it’s me he’s loath to disappoint, not Brandon.

I decide to ignore his “it’s a business thing” brush-off. As if I wouldn’t understand. At least he’s not explaining to Brandon.

“But please. Dinner is on its way. Enjoy.” He looks at me. “Bring me home a doggy bag or something.”

To my surprise, Brandon looks up at my father and says, “I’m sure it’s nothing.”

Dad looks almost amused. “Of course it is. It’s our VC guy. His assistant left a message for Margo, saying he’s pulling out. And you know we have that big acquisition meeting in the morning.”

So much for Dad not telling Brandon.

“A message? Margo didn’t talk to her? Or to him? Margo didn’t confirm?”

“I told you earlier. Tom is at the Hunt Club. I can just pop over.”

“Or you could call.”

“It’s not a fifty-dollar investment, Brandon. This needs to be handled in person.”

“But if you don’t confirm … ”

“Why would I need to confirm?”

Brandon’s eyes flick toward me for some reason. “Anyone could have left that message.”

“What,” he says, “you think someone is messing with me for no reason?” He gives me a sideways grin then slaps Brandon on the back. “Remember the meeting. Tomorrow, 7 a.m., at the office. Don’t run off to Stonegate and forget, okay? I already told everyone my new … well, a strong Land Acquisition up-and-comer will be there.”

“Sure,” Brandon says, clearly looking for another way to object.

“Don’t forget. You won’t forget, will you?”

“No.”

“Good. Because if we bust this meeting, Tom really will walk.” Another grin, this one bigger. “And don’t worry. I’ll get him to the meeting. Then it’s your job to make our case.”

Brandon nods, but I can tell he’s uncomfortable. They talked through a lot of this earlier, and it’s clear that Brandon doesn’t feel confident that he can convince funding to stand behind our newest acquisition. But if he doesn’t want the big seat, he’d better back off now.

Dad leans toward me and gives me a little kiss on the cheek. Before Brandon knows what hit him, he’s already across the room.

Finally, torturously, Brandon turns halfway toward me. “I guess it’s just us then.”

For some reason, those six words give me a chill. Or is it a thrill?

“Us and your sister,” I clarify.

“Right,” Brandon says, his face unreadable.

“Where is she, anyway?” I have no idea how much time has passed because the clock ticks slowly when you’re at a table beside someone who both irritates and draws you while you’re each refusing to speak under the weight of the strangeness between you.

I’m considering letting Brandon off the hook – saying we should call off dinner and go home – when the food arrives.

Brandon picks up his glass of wine. I think he’s going to toast for some bizarre reason, but instead he drinks half of it.

“Dinner’s here,” he says, glancing at the two empty places. “How nice.”

CHAPTER TWENTY

Riley

AN HOUR AND A HALF later, the dessert plates are cleared, and I’m disliking Brandon’s standoffish behavior a whole lot less.

Because I’m on my third glass of wine, and I’m a lightweight. And Brandon, after finishing his second glass, ordered scotch. He did it in a grand manner, announcing that when you were at a place like this, you had to drink scotch. Then he said there was a fancy way to order scotch but didn’t know it and never remembered which was better: single-malt or double. He asked the waiter for “all the malts you have” and the waiter turned away with a very French look on his face.

We’re not drunk. I might be teetering, but really I’m happy. Part of me wonders if it was wise to finish dinner, let alone order dessert – and that same part wonders if it was wise to stay beyond that, to order coffee and to get this third glass of wine. The two definitely don’t mix.

But I don’t really care.

None of that was wise. And when my father left, Brandon became more guarded, less pleasant. We ate in silence for a while as if fulfilling a prison sentence. Brandon wanted to mumble about Dad leaving – not because he’d been discourteous to go, but because whatever it was that had stolen him was, in Brandon’s mind, not just unnecessary but downright unimportant.

I thought that was presumptuous. So I kept my head down, too. I counted asparagus shoots, lining them up on my plate to keep them parallel. Brandon seemed to see me doing it and was about to say something when I realized that Bridget still hadn’t returned.

“Wait,” I said, looking around as if I’d heard a strange sound, “where is your sister?”

And Brandon, his head still down, said, “She had chili for lunch.”

I laughed hard enough that an old man shushed me from one table over. He put a finger to his lips and gave me the evil eye. His wife turned fully in her seat, putting her hand on the back to pivot far enough to stress her diamond-encrusted artificial hip. That thought made me laugh harder, and that’s when I remembered how long it had been since I’d had more than a single glass of wine, and the one in front of me had been generous.

“Seriously,” said Brandon.

The thought of running into the restroom to comfort poor diarrhetic Bridget got me giggling again and earned me a second look from the old couple.

I tried to see Brandon from the corner of my eye. He was smiling. Brandon’s beard hid his lips, but not enough. Things have been lighter since.

I’m enjoying myself. We made some pointless small talk. We discussed business because that feels safe. He flatters me by asking honest questions, not like the things he’d ask the airheaded daughter who knows nothing of her own. Our rhythm becomes easier, then easy. We’re talking land, lending, big strategy, and ten-year plans. Around Brandon, I almost feel confident, like my father’s stand-in rather than his lackey.

I don’t think Brandon is telling the truth about his sister – that she left without telling anyone because of an emergency – any more than he told me the truth about the picture. But at this point I care a lot less. Bridget is gone. I made a joke about how I’d miss her conversation, then immediately wondered if her voice issues were a sore spot and I’d gone too far. But Brandon laughed, wry, grumbling good-naturedly that he’d miss her meddling too.

Brandon sips his scotch. It smells like gasoline when he waves it under my nose, offering a sip. After the third goading offer, I finally agree. It’s awful stuff. It makes my nose flare and burns going down.

“That’s how a man drinks,” he says, smiling.

I giggle a little, knowing it is indeed a stupid little giggle, and exhale. There’s one of those quiet moments, but rather than being tense, Brandon is still smiling. His eyes are friendly and soft. Under the table, his knee is inches from mine, and I feel a strong desire to lay my hand atop it.

“You don’t smile much,” I say, feeling bold.

“I’m smiling right now.”

“That’s because you’re drunk.”

“I’m not drunk.”

“You’re lubricated,” I correct.

“Well, you’re lubricated, too.” But then he seems momentarily embarrassed even through the haze, because the notion of a girl being “lubricated” has a bit of double meaning.

He breaks the awkwardness by pretending he didn’t notice then says, “What, do I come across as stodgy?”

“You’re very serious.”

“Am I? I’m really not.”

“Well, you look it.”

“I don’t. What, did you think I was an asshole?”

“Past tense?” I say. Then I smile to soften the statement, to make it clear as a joke.

“I’m not,” he says, seeming a trifle offended. “I just don’t smile much, I guess. But that doesn’t make me serious.”

“Only compared to you.”

“What does that mean?” And now I’m the one who, to my own ears, sounds a trifle offended. What, I’m all giggles and unicorns? Nothing hardworking and intelligent to look at here, folks. Just another dumb blonde with rainbows in her head.

“You’re just very ebullient.”

“‘Ebullient’?”

“It means happy. Bubbly.”

“I know what it means. I’m just surprised that you do.”

“What, because I’m just a construction worker?”

“You’re Vice President of Land Acquisition,” I say, raising my glass.

“Not yet.”

“Soon,” I say. “He likes you a lot.”

“How ebullient of you.”

There’s another moment of quiet, and I find the courage to speak. But I’m also aware, despite my lubrication (in its multiple variations), that I’m nervous enough to require courage. Why is that? Brandon isn’t even my type. Yes, he’s hot. Yes, he’s ambitious, and I’m hardwired to melt in the face of ambition. And yes, he’s overcome some bad stuff, tripping my admiration for people who refuse to settle. But at twenty-seven, he’s a bit too old for me. He’s too serious. And there’s that beard.

“What is with the beard?” My eyes flick away and down as I ask. My hand comes up almost of its own will, and I realize I’m touching my hair, suddenly sure it’s out of place. My airheaded blonde hair, which almost certainly isn’t his type, either.

“I like having a beard,” he says, as if that’s an answer.

“Bullshit.”

His lips pull into a wide smile this time, almost like a joker’s. It makes points of his mouth. It’s probably a beautiful thing without all that hair in the way, but even with the beard I don’t mind. Beards scratch, sure. But Brandon’s looks soft, and it takes everything inside me not to reach out and see for myself.

“What?” I say.

“It’s just cute to see you swear.”

I’m sure I’ve sworn in front of him before. I also wasn’t shy at school, with my friends. But that’s a side I’ve been hiding. He’ll assume I was in a damned sorority if I let him down that road, and I definitely wasn’t. My friends went to crappy diners and dive-bar concerts. It’s definitely not my first go-round at being called “cute,” though, and more than once one of my male friends had to save me from a drunk admirer with a mohawk.

“Cute.”

“It’s not bad to be cute,” he says, apparently noting my tone.

“So you think that’s what I am. Cute.” It’s a trap question. Because of course he should think I’m cute, but he also shouldn’t.

“Sure,” he says, unabashed.

I’m not as offended as I should be. But if he says “sure” so easily, does that mean it’s what everyone else at Life of Riley thinks? It’s definitely what my father thinks.

“I’m more than cute.”

“I get that,” he says, the coat hanger smile still on his lips.

“I swear plenty.”

“Yeah? Let’s hear it.”

“Fuck,” I say.

His eyebrows go up. “The big one, right off the bat.” He sips. “That’s kind of hot.”

“I thought it was cute?” 

“It’s hot to hear you swear because you’re cute.”

I suppose this is a compliment. It’s also an uncomfortable one, and I’m not tipsy enough to miss the awkward part coming if we keep heading down this road.

Brandon leans back and twists his lips up at one end as if thinking hard.

“How do you know Johnny Rotten?” he says.

“Who?”

“John Lydon. The singer from the Sex Pistols.”

It’s a strange question. I’m sure my face twists a bit when I reply. “What makes you think I know him?”

“I saw a picture of you with him on LiveLyfe.”

My expression twists farther. “Why were you on my LiveLyfe?”

He looks suddenly embarrassed. “Oh. I don’t know. Job research.”

“You’re stalking me,” I joke. But something about the idea that he’s spent time looking me up makes me feel warmer than what I already feel from the wine. Now I really want to lay my hand on his knee. The restaurant is clearing out a little, and the empty space makes me want to kiss him. Nobody would need to know. But then again, that’s the kind of thing Old Riley would do. The action of a hormone-fueled teenager.

“I was looking up Life of Riley, and you’re connected, so I – ”

I decide to save him. “What’s Johnny Rotten to you?” I ask. Because the picture isn’t labeled; it’s just another upload I never bothered to caption. Who recognizes John Lydon today? This isn’t Johnny Rotten from the liner notes of Never Mind the Bollocks. This is Lydon as he is now, decades later. And that’s even ignoring that the Pistols’ heyday was before both our times. I can thank my vintage friends at college for introducing me to that old scene. But what’s it to Brandon?

“I like punk music. Well, all sorts of music, really. But enough to know Johnny Rotten when I see him.”

“He doesn’t even look like Johnny Rotten anymore. Would you recognize Sid Vicious, too?”

“I would,” Brandon says, “if he wasn’t dead.”

I raise my glass: trick question passed.

The waiter returns and asks if we’d like our wine and gasoline-scotch refreshed. We both decline, but I ask for more coffee. The waiter seems slightly annoyed that we’re still here, occupying the table, but scuttles off to comply.

“Maybe we should go,” I say, watching the bustling waiter. My bluff should be obvious because I just asked for more coffee, but Brandon doesn’t seem to see it. Good. Because I’d like to keep pretending I don’t want him, and maybe he’ll do me the courtesy of pretending he doesn’t want me.

This might be a mistake waiting to happen. I don’t think either of us is thinking clearly, but we’re definitely not drunk. It’s the perfect amount of inhibition, just right like Goldilocks’s porridge.

“I could call you a cab,” he says.

Oh. Right. I forgot that Bridget, in order to handle her “emergency,” took his car.