Page 16 of Trusting You
6
Locke
That evening, when I get to midtown, I find Carter waiting at an overly plump booth in the back of an insanely saturated, burns-the-retinas neon tourist bar.
Stepping out from the subway into Times Square is brutal enough. But this girl expects me to navigate masses of people on the sidewalks—worse than any Los Angeles traffic jam—before walking down the most popular avenue known to the world—Broadway. Then completing my journey by entering a door with lightbulbs framing its exterior and a flashing jumbo shrimp on top.
I’m conscious of the stares as soon as I step in, from the hostess to the teens scattered throughout the restaurant. All are squinting at me, then rushing to their phones for verification.
News travels fast these days, infamy even more so. I’d always chased fame but was too dumb to understand it could come in the form of a dude twice my size sending my kneecap to the other side of the field just as efficiently as winning a Super Bowl Championship.
Thank you, internet.
“We’ve got a rookie on the field, Lachlan Hayes…” I hear on someone’s phone as I pass.
Jesus, kids are still watching that?
I try to ignore the feel of the flashback on my leg, and the whispers following its path.
I’m sweaty, but that’s nothing new. As I approach Carter, I lift up my shirt to dab at my forehead, showing off my abs. Usually, the sight is enough to soften any woman.
I should learn. Not this one.
“Hey,” she says, setting her phone down.
I nod a greeting, sliding into the bright red vinyl and searching for some kind of manliness in the squeal of my ass against the plastic.
The waiter hasn’t arrived yet, so there’s no break in the awkwardness. I say, “Are you homesick?”
She unfreezes from her stare over my shoulder. “What?”
“Are you missing Florida?” I include the entirety of this bar in my question. “Is that why we’re in some pretend wooden boat, filled with tiki lights and over-priced Pina Coladas?”
Her stare hardens. Uh-oh.
“I don’t know the area very well,” she says. Obviously. “And since this is next door to where I’m staying, I thought it was the best choice. It was either this or drinks in my hotel lobby.”
“Probably the same price there, too,” I mutter.
“Excuse me?”
“Nothing.” I reach for a giant glass of water that was left on the table, drinking as if bored.
“So, you texted,” she says, and I suppose my pathetic attempt at small talk is over.
“I did.”
I’m about to say more, but the waiter comes. Carter is—unsurprisingly—not hungry. She looks at me as she says to the guy, “But I’ll take a Pina Colada. It’s on him.”
I smile back at her with all my pearly whites. “And I’ll have a beer.”
“We only have Bud Light,” says the waiter.
“Fine. That. And…hang on.” I cluck my tongue as I peruse the menu, viscerally aware of the woman across from me, her flames growing higher the longer I take. I smother a smile. Yes, the two of us are in a very serious situation. Yes, she’s the first woman who’s ever hated me outright. But there’s something irresistibly inappropriate about it like the devil tempts me to do bad things.
I say, “Double cheeseburger with onion rings.”
The waiter nods and departs. Carter looks like she’s about to throat-punch me.