Page 33 of Our Sadie
ELEVEN: Landmine
JEROME
Yet when we arrive at our new location for the next part of our date, I admit that she doesn’t seem thrilled with our destination.
“The library?”
“The library. Also, I’ve had a service brought here courtesy of your lovely house manager.”
Just as I arranged with Maxine, a meal is here waiting even though it’s only around four thirty in the afternoon. My grandmoms—God rest her soul—would’ve called this an early bird special.
Setting her glass of wine down, I set about cracking open the main course, which are crab legs and lobster tails. With only one operable hand, doing so herself would likely be a massive undertaking. Everything is fine until I fork some of the clumped meat and offer to feed it to her myself.
In my films, food was sometimes utilized as an aphrodisiac, particularly when accompanied by wine or champagne. That’s how I intended this to come across to her now, as a romantic gesture.
Evidently, it’s not.
“What are you doing?” Her question lashes out of her so harshly that she might as well have used a bullwhip.
“Uh...” My customary coolness slips a bit. “Serving you your food.”
“No.” She jumps to her feet so briskly that she rattles the table. Her wine—the merlot I carefully transported from the basement—tips sideways, spilling all over the table and down to the carpeted floor. “You are not. That’s not what serving is. What you’re doing is handfeeding me like a goddamn invalid when I’m not one, and I don’t appreciate the condescension.”
This jettisons out of her at a deadly hiss, and an icy rage flashes in her eyes, making the dove-gray appear hard as granite. I raise my hands in surrender, half rising out of my own chair.
“I’m sorry. Sincerely, Sadie. I apologize. I meant no disrespect.”
She maintains her defensive stance. “I won’t put up with any of that bullshit. If I need or want help, I’ll fucking ask for it.”
“I understand.” I keep my tone mild. Placid. I go out of my way to avoid contentious subjects with my clients. But sometimes it’s impossible to avoid them until it’s too late.
Like a landmine.
And I sure trampled all over this one.
I keep her in my sights, needing to figure out how to de-escalate things. She’s still furious enough to blowtorch me again based on how tense she is, and I’ve clearly misjudged her sensitivity level on this big time.
That’s on me.
Yet despite what some might consider an overreaction, she doesn’t strike me as the type to rail against the world with no reason. Up until now, what I’ve mostly seen out of her is an emotionlessness that’s unusual for most women, or at least the women I’ve known and worked with.
But then it hits me... What if this is a defense mechanism? What if having someone baby her against her will reminds her of events she’d rather forget?
Like how she received those burns, maybe.
It takes a long time before she acquiesces to take her seat again, and the silence between us is cringey. Still, the only thing I know to do is to remain quiet. I don’t even address the wine staining the floor. I need to not draw attention to the proof that I misjudged her desires to such an extreme.
Neither of us are eating. I’ve lost my appetite, and it seems the same is true of her. It’s a shame to waste such an expensive meal, but I’ve made my bed and there’s nothing to do now but lay in it.
The seconds tick on like hours, and while what I did was an accident, I’m not sure what course to take to put us back on track. I could wrap the date early, but that would mean sacrificing any remaining chance I might have—miniscule as it might be—in becoming her final choice.
Since I’m unwilling to go with the nuclear option, I proceed with my original plans in the hopes that something between us can be salvaged. I peer around at our surroundings. Like the windows, the bookshelves lining the walls stretch from floor to ceiling with comfy two-seat sofas and overstuffed chairs positioned in the middle of the room.
“Your library is impressive,” I comment.
Other than shooting me a fleeting glance, she doesn’t respond.
“I love to read,” I admit. “In school, I was always the boy hidden off to the side with a choose-your-own-adventure book. I’d even sneak them into the classes I didn’t like as much so I could continue with the story.” I stand, traversing over to the plush furniture. “I know it’s a risk, but I was hoping that reading might be something we have in common.”