Page 2 of The Quit List
What I should’ve done, right at that second, was to get up and leave.
Quit while I was ahead.
But, no. I continued to sit here, like an overdressed lemon, for the next hour, tuning out Keith’s monologues while internally wondering why I’m cursed in the dating department.
Apparently by staying, all I’ve done is made him think that there’s a snowball’s chance in hell that I’m going home with him tonight.
Keith seems totally unphased by my proclamation as he reaches for yet another piece of bread. “Look, Hallie, I’ve got an early flight tomorrow. You and I gonna knock boots after this or not?”
And just like that, something deep within me snaps. Maybe it’s the weeks of awkward bad dates in a row, filled with even more awkward silences. Or the fact that tonight is yet another evening spent with someone who has zero interest in me—and I in them. Or the fact that, despite my efforts over the past couple months, I seem to be making no progress towards finding what I want, and instead, I almost appear to be moving backwards.
But either way, I’m officially done trying to be calm and reasonable with this insufferable man.
“It’s Holly. And to your incredibly inappropriate and rather offensive question, I’m gonna say… Not.” I smile sweetly. And then, in case he’s still not following, I add, “Absolutely no way in hell. Not if you were the last living, breathing, sentient being on earth.”
Keith stops licking butter off his fingers as he fixes me with that blue-eyed stare. Finally, something I’ve said has apparently gotten through that thick skull. And his jaw immediately sets in annoyance.
“What a waste of time,” he mutters.
It’s all I can do not to throw my hands in the air. “At last, we agree on something.” I motion to our waiter for the bill. “Why don’t you head out, Keith. I’ll take care of the check.”
I don’t mean anything by this except that I want this man to leave my table once and for all, but Keith must take it as an attempt to emasculate him, because he quickly turns a violent shade of red. He fumbles for his wallet and proceeds to scatter a few twenties on the table before shooting me an incredulous glare. “I was about to leave, anyway.”
“Goodbye, Keith,” I reply, barely keeping from full-on rolling my eyes at him—apparently the two glasses of wine I’ve consumed are making me much braver than usual. That, or the thought of yet more of my time being wasted. “I’d say have a nice life, but I wouldn’t mean it.”
“No wonder you’re single,” Keith spits, before finally—thankfully—taking his leave, stepping right into our waiter’s path and rudely demanding that he move out of the way.
I close my eyes for a moment and take a deep, calming breath. When I open them again, our waiter is hovering close by the table, his eyes darting nervously between me and Keith’s swiftly retreating figure.
I smile blandly and nod at the leather check presenter in his hand. “I’ll get that.”
Inside, I find two mint chocolates and a hefty receipt.
It’s not like I make the big bucks at my Guest Services job at the Pinnacle Hotel, and tonight’s meal will certainly cut into the already modest “date budget” I’ve set for myself. I cram both chocolates into my mouth, hoping the sugar will take the edge off the sting. “I’ll pay now. By card, if you’ve got the reader with you.”
“Sure.” The waiter looks like he’s still debating running for his life.
I tap my card on the reader for the full amount of the dinner, then bundle up Keith’s sloppy collection of twenties and slide them into the leather book as a tip.
The waiter’s eyes widen. “Wow. That’s, um…”
“Deserved,” I finish for him. “Thanks for being a great server.”
His expression shifts from twitchily nervous to positively delighted. “Thank you so much.”
As he trots off, I pour myself another glass of the overpriced bottle of wine that still sits on the table, trying to appear composed. I’m happy to have made someone’s night, but I’m not sure my tipping the waiter so generously was born from actual generosity or out of spite, given Keith’s disgusting “minimum wage workers are lazy” spiel.
It’s likely a bit of both. Because the thought of Keith’s money in the young waiter’s hands makes me feel a whole lot better.
I pull my phone from my bag, login to Spark—the dating app Keith and I matched on—and block his profile.
Sadly, the only spark tonight happened when I leaned over the centerpiece to swipe a slice of bread from the basket Keith was hoarding (“carb-loading,” apparently) and I almost set fire to my sleeve.
Sipping on my expensive wine, I text my best friend and roommate, Aubrey.
Another one bites the dust.
*gif of a house going up in flames*