Page 9 of Burning Caine
“I understand you’re an artist?”
He hesitated a moment, eyes still on the drink list. “Painter. Mostly oil.”
“What style do you prefer? Impressionism is my favorite, particularly Monet and Renoir.”
“Haystacks, flowers, and picnics. The Impressionists were so monotonous! Easy and simple.” He took a sip of his water and looked out at the people in the restaurant. He barely looked at me while he talked, as though the guy who was a half hour late didn’t think I was important enough or pretty enough to look at.
“So, what style do you do?”
“A bit of everything, but I prefer abstract expressionism. You know, Jackson Pollock and Mark Rothko. Real meditative stuff.”
I’d studied art history in college, and while I could appreciate how abstract art required the viewer to meld their own experiences into interpreting it, becoming part of it, it wasn’t my taste. What next?
I should have left when he was fifteen minutes late. I snatched the menu and looked through to choose some food. Just because Cameron, rather Cam-ron, had already eaten didn’t change the empty feeling in my stomach.
“What do you do?” he asked. “Your profile listed you as a contractor.”
“I work for an insurance company.”
“Doing what?” He remained more focused on the people in the restaurant than on me.
“I’m a claims adjuster. Basically, I—”
“Screw people out of the money they deserve when something bad happens?” He finally looked at me, head tilted.
Asshole.
“No, I help people get the money and the assistance they need when something bad happens.”
The server arrived to take our orders. I had originally planned on ordering the fettuccine alfredo. It was petty, but instead I ordered a New York Strip, medium rare.
Cam-ron ordered a pint of an IPA from a local microbrewery, and that would be enough for him. The server hesitated for a moment, expecting a joke, but with none coming, she left.
“You know steak’ll give you cancer,” he said, not even looking at me, inspecting his cutlery.
I balled my fists in my lap instead of hitting him. “What the hell is your problem?”
“Rude much?”
“You arrive a half hour late, you’ve already eaten when you show up for a dinner date, you insult my favorite art style, and you insult my career. And then you imply I’m the one at this table with the bad manners?” I huffed, rolled my eyes, then flagged down our server.“I’m sorry, but something’s come up, and I want to cancel my entrée. Is it too late?”
“Let me check.” She headed to the back while I stood and waited next to the table.
“You’re leaving?” The guy was oblivious.
The server returned after cancelling my order. Thank god. I put fifty dollars in her hand and apologized. “That’s to cover my appetizer and wine, his beer, and the time we wasted at this table.” I grabbed the bruschetta and my wine. “I’m eating this at the bar with another glass of wine.”
I stomped to a free stool and dropped the plate on the bar, gulped what was left in my glass, and gathered enough self-control to put it down lightly. I tore my phone out of my purse and texted Cass.
I’m done dating for the rest of my life
He showed?came her immediate response.
Yes. And no, I’m not talking about it
The server spoke to the bartender, who poured me some more wine, while I moved the bruschetta aimlessly around on the plate. It was August first. Cass’s treatments were supposed to be done by the end of March. Eight more months. Then I’d be out of this damn town again. Away from best friends who didn’t talk to me anymore and men who were thirty minutes late for dinner.
Chapter 5