“That’s not necessarily true.” Rowan toys with a strand of hair. I can’t tell if she’s bored or if I’m actually making her nervous. “A lot of people will be too intimidated to make the first move. You might be too—shy or nervous or whatever else—but if the silence is dragging on and getting weird, then you should definitely say something.”
“Well, the whole thing was a setup and bullshit right from the start. First of all, you told me no personal information was to be given out. I wouldn’t be picking anyone up from their house.”
“Maybe not, but you picked Amanda up from an arranged public place. That’s pretty much the same thing. We just tell people to keep their private information private to keep everyone safe. That wasn’t needed in this case.”
“No?” I arch a brow. “How do you know I’m not actually a stalker or something? You did say I was creepy.”
“Stop.” Rowan picks up her water and takes a sip. She doesn’t lose her composure. She doesn’t even look rattled, but her left eye twitches again. “I’m not getting into that. If you want to stalk me or creep me, you can deal with the law. I’ll take my chances. Anyway, that’s changing the subject, and I’m not going to let you do it. We are talking about you being the one to break the ice after just a few minutes of silence. If you get the conversation going, you’ll be surprised at how pleasant the drive could have been.”
“You could have said something.”
“I wanted to see what you would do.”
“Great. You know, most people don’t act how they normally would when they’re under extreme duress?”
“You consider this extreme duress? If that’s true, then you need to get out and experience more of life.”
“This whole thing is a test that you’ve already determined I’m going to fail, no matter what.”
Rowan sets her hand on the table and taps her short nails against the hard red top. She smiles at me, but her eyes flash with something pretty close to annoyance. For some reason, it’s strangely thrilling that I’ve managed to piss her off, even just a little. She’s beautiful as it is, but I bet she’d be insanely gorgeous when she’s all fired up with righteous dating wrath.
“That’s not true at all. It isn’t about passing or failing. It’s not a test. If you recall, I said it was a dry run for your future dates. I’m trying to help you succeed. I’m not judging you. I’m trying to provide constructive criticism, which is really just suggestions.” I think Rowan is done, but then she mutters something about entitlement under her breath and takes a gulp of water.
Yup. She hates me. She thinks I’m just some rich kid with the clichéd silver spoon stuck up my butt—oh wait, I think it’s supposed to be my mouth. Whatever. She can hate me if she wants. She’s clearly pissed that she could lose her job over this, and so far, I’ve done nothing but fuck it up. This isn’t actually about me. It’s about her. I’m about to call her on it too, but she reaches into her tote—which is tucked on the red vinyl bench seat beside her—and pulls out a set of books. She slides them across the table.
I glance at the three titles dispassionately.
“Relationship and self-help. As promised,” Rowan announces smugly. “A lot of times, for a relationship to be successful, people need to work on themselves first and foremost.”
“Uh, says the lady who is single.”
Surprisingly, Rowan’s cheeks flush. Her hand is still sitting on the table, and I’m struck by the most absurd urge to reach out and caress her fingers with mine, just to see how soft her skin is. I think it would be a little bit like caressing a combination of rose petals and fresh-cut grass. Amazingly soft and silky, and the smell would damn near make me lose my mind.
“How do you know I’m single?” She challenges, recovering fast.
“Well, you’re out on a date with me right now.”
“A fake date, which is not a date at all. I’d like to think of it more like a dress rehearsal or an experiment of sorts.”
“Good to know I’m your lab rat. Anyway, it’s still going out with a guy. No other guy would think it was okay.”
“Even if it was for work?”
“Nope. Not a chance.”
I think then, about what it would be like if this date was real and Rowan was my girlfriend. I don’t imagine things like how the date would end and if she’d invite me up to her apartment or not. Instead, I think about what it would be like to take her somewhere she hasn’t been before. To watch her eyes light up and her face come alive with wonder at seeing an amazing piece of art or at hearing a touching piece of music. I imagine her laughter, real laughter—the kind that gives you tears in the eyes and makes your abs hurt. I imagine what kind of stores she’d drag me into if she had the chance, and her delight at finding yet another one of the retro dresses she obviously loves.
I imagine cooking something together, eating it after, doing things—basic life things. I imagine how thrilled my mom would be. She’d love her; I know that. My dad would probably love her, too, because I’m sure Rowan can talk to anyone about anything. It wouldn’t be long before my parents loved her more than they loved me, and that would be just fine.
I hate imagining stuff like that, and not just because it’s inappropriate. I hate it because all that shit is well and good and might happen, but then the inevitable fallout comes. I imagine us fighting, hurting each other. The ugly parts where the other person takes and takes, and one person tries to fight it and fails. And the one where both parties damage the other beyond repair. Essentially, I imagine failure and the shitty ending, which all relationships have to have because shit just doesn’t work out anymore, and people are usually too selfish and shitty to put in the time and effort and care.
I swallow hard and slide the books off the table. I set them on the seat beside me. “Great. Thanks.” I force a smile, but I can tell Rowan’s not buying it.
“I don’t have to currently be in a relationship to be good at my job,” she informs me. It’s not snarky or biting. She’s just talking now. “I’ve been doing this for a while now, and I am pretty good at helping people. At least, so my track record says. I’m trying to give you the resources to succeed. And no, it’s not just because I want to keep my job.”
“Why would you lose your job?”
She fidgets uncomfortably. “Uh, well, my boss can be a bit of a jerk sometimes, and he basically said that if you or your mom isn’t happy with the results of this, then I’m done.”
“That’s quite harsh.”
“Yes, the company charges quite a bit for their services, and we like to have a good track record. I’ve had a few of my clients who were unhappy this past year, and I guess my boss figured it was enough. I’m sure he’d fire other people too if they weren’t bringing money in.”
“So, if someone isn’t happy with the services, they get a refund?”
“Not exactly. Okay, so they don’t, but it’s bad publicity because they’ll tell everyone how unsatisfied they were. Anyway, I shouldn’t have told you about maybe losing my job. It doesn’t really matter. I’m pulling out all the stops on this one because you’re one of the first clients I’ve had who actively doesn’t want to succeed, and I think you need to change your mind about all of this.”