Maybe he has a split personality syndrome like Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.
I silently watch as he checks the grill, moving strips of steak around. “Be right back, babe.” He pats me on the head once more before heading inside, and I’m tempted to growl like the dog he seems to think I am.
I’m not sure I can move past his weird behavior. This date might be over when it’s barely begun.
As soon as the door closes, Marshall calls out, “Lucky, let me know if you want me to extricate you from the situation. I’m perfectly willing to be your knight in shining armor.” My only reply is to hold my middle finger up high enough for him to notice. “Okay, but don’t say I didn’t offer,” he replies, and I hear him so clearly, he might as well be sitting on the deck with me.
As large as these houses are, available land is hard to find. Many of the houses take up most of their lots, but with the beach as your backyard, no one minds.
Sitting there, I silently stew in my anger and watch the waves roll in and out. You’d think the beautiful sight would be enough to calm me, but it’s not. Kent is acting strange, and the fact that Marshall is witnessing this disaster makes it so much worse. I can feel his mocking gaze on the back of my head. I swear my blood pressure’s rising with each passing second. If Kent doesn’t come back soon, my head might explode like a cartoon thermometer.
My phone’s text alert beeps from my pocket. Slipping it out, I stare down at the screen. I don’t recognize the number, so I open the text.
Lucky, do you want a beer? I’ve also got popcorn for the show.
My teeth clench together. Of course it’s Marshall. He’s the only person who calls me Lucky. I switch my phone to silent mode before replying.
Me: How did you get my number?
Marshall: I’ve had it forever.
Me: Then why are you using it?
Marshall: You look lonely over there all by yourself. Did you scare your date off already?
I shake my head. Calm down, Clover, I remind myself.
It’s pathetic how quickly Marshall can get to me. Why do I let him under my skin? He’s always been an asshole, and he always will be. I shouldn’t give him any power over me. I shouldn’t care what he thinks.
But I do.
And I always have.
Even though I seldom admit this to myself.
Marshall: Maybe he went to find another personality.
I read his latest text and my lips itch from the urge to smile. If anyone else had sent me this message I’d be laughing right now, but coming from him it’s less amusing. It just serves as another reminder that he’s a fully engaged witness to my bizarre date.
Me: Don’t you have anything better to do?
Marshall: Than watching this train wreck? Hell no.
Kent returns with his arms packed full. He sets a bowl of salad down, a bottle of dressing, a basket of rolls, and a tub of butter. That leaves him with a wine bottle and two glasses that he places on the table.
“Wow. Were you a waiter at some point?” I ask, setting my cell phone in my lap. I don’t want to be rude.
“No, I just didn’t want to make extra trips when I could get it all at once.” He moves to the grill and picks up a set of metal tongs, then uses them to place the steak on an white oval plate.
My screen lights up with a text alert, and I glance down to read the words.
Marshall: For a minute there, I thought he might pull a couple of ears of corn out of his ass.
I snigger. I can’t help myself.
Kent sets the plate down on the table. “Help yourself. I hope everything is to your liking.”
I dish out a bit of each option while he pours the wine. As soon as my glass is filled, I take a large gulp. I’ve never needed alcohol so badly before.
“How is everything?” he asks when my mouth is full.
I finish chewing before answering. “Delicious, thanks.”
It feels like I’m eating dinner with a different person than the one who greeted me. We went from him saying he smells so good my clothes are going to fall off to him acting condescending, and now we’ve progressed to stiff pleasantries.
What the hell is going on?
Chapter Four
Clover
After too many minutes spent in awkward silence that seems even more painful than the stiff pleasantries, I decide to try to draw him into a conversation.
“Where did you learn to cook?” I question.
“Our cook taught me.”
“You had a cook?” I squawk.
He chuckles. “We have one at every one of our houses.”
“How many houses does your family own?”
“Only six.” He shrugs as if that’s the norm.
“Six? Who needs six houses?”
“One who travels often,” he replies.
I take another large sip of wine as I search for another possible topic of conversation. “Where did you go to college?”
“Harvard, of course,” he states, as if there’s no other choice.
“Of course,” I agree, but he doesn’t seem to catch my sarcasm. The delicious food and palatable wine are the only things saving this from being a total shitshow.
My phone lights up in my lap.
Marshall: Haaarvard, of course. Only peasants go to B.U.
Before I can clear the message,another one comes through.
Marshall: Pardon me. Would you have any Grey Poupon?
I quickly shovel another bite between my lips before I laugh.
Marshall’s texts are another thing saving this fast sinking ship. They’re breathing life into me while Kent slowly sucks it out with one stilted remark at a time. This date is painful. I still can’t fathom how I misjudged him. He wasn’t like this before. He was cool and charming. Tonight, he’s arrogant and condescending—two qualities I despise. I’ve already decided this will be our first and last date.
If the meal weren’t so good, I would’ve left already. But the steak is tender enough to cut with a butter knife, and the marinade he used has my taste buds dancing. There’s no way I’m not finishing what’s on my plate. Maybe I can at least get the recipe, so this won’t be a total wash.
“What did you use for a marinade? It’s delicious.”
“It’s a secret family recipe that my grandmother came up with,” he tells me.
A secret? Dammit.
“How much of a secret are we talking about? Is there any wiggle room in there for me to get a copy?”
Hey, it doesn’t hurt to ask.
“Unfortunately for you, there’s no chance of me sharing the recipe. Are you familiar with Grand Barbeque?”
“You mean the nationwide chain of restaurants?”
“Yes, that one. My family owns them. The marinade is the same one we’re famous for.”
“Oh, wow. I had no idea.”
“How could you? I just told you.” His tone is a teeth-clenching level of condescending.
“You know, I’ve never been to one of your family’s restaurants.”
How do you like them apples?
“You haven’t? For real?” He doesn’t seem to believe me.
“Yes, for real.” I widen my eyes. “Shocking, isn’t it?”
“I’ll say. Did you grow up under a rock?” he asks.