Page 25 of Unsteady: How to Fail at Flirting
I let him in, and immediately, my sullen, contrary cat, Nirvana, sidles up to him and begins rubbing her face all over his shin.
I’m in my favorite yellow sundress, but I haven’t shaved, finished drying my hair, or put on makeup.
Still, this man eyes me like I’m a slice of lemon cake on a plate.
“Wow,” he says, picking up Nirvana.
I wince as I blot my hair dry. “He doesn’t like to be picked up.”
The little fanged traitor proves me wrong as he settles into Finn’s arms like an oversized baby.
“I think he does.”
“Unbelievable,” I say. “Make yourself at home. I have to finish putting my face on.”
“Don’t go to any trouble,” he says, but I did notice that for once, Finn’s not wearing his steel-toed boots. Instead, he wears new-looking leather dress sneakers, light chinos, and a pale olive linen button-down shirt. He’s dressed in about $800 of crisp, new Banana Republic. Not super high end, but still more luxe than what my budget can afford, in my cotton blend Wal-Mart dress from two summers ago.
When I come out of my room, I see him studying the scratched-up end of my sofa, courtesy of Nirvana.
“You need to stop scratching your mom’s furniture,” Finn murmurs, rubbing my cat’s belly.
“I need to just throw out that couch. It’s awful.”
Finn offers no judgment, but I know what he’s thinking. I can only imagine what his house looks like back in Lake Norman, compared to this crappy, tiny rental of mine.
Not that any of that matters.
It’s not as if what we have is anything more than physical.
If he wants more than that, he has no idea what he’s getting into.
Did I say I was worried about how we would be perceived as a couple?
Well, no need to worry. The train is empty except for the two of us.
It turns out, a person can book the train for private parties, and it just so happened that there was an opening.
The train itself is charming, with old-school touches like brass lamps, dark wood, and velvet seats. There’s a chef’s menu brought to us in four courses by a server dressed as a conductor from a luxury train from the early 1900s.
There’s nothing in the world like having the best sex in your life, followed by a great meal and even better conversation. I learn a lot about Finn and find out we have a lot in common.
We both like cats, obviously. Finn would like multiple dogs one day, preferably rescues.
Then the conversation goes deeper. He and his brother Oliver had some bad times in their childhood, with a domineering father and an absentee mother who struggled with addiction. Normally, here’s where I would crack a joke to lighten the mood. Or change the subject.
But I can see these are things he wants me to know about.
As his friend, I reach across the table and hold his hand. “I’m so sorry that happened to the two of you,” I say. And then, the kiss of death.
“I know what it’s like to have a rough childhood.”
I shouldn’t have said that. I don’t like to talk about it.
As the server delivers our lava cakes for dessert, I stare down at the table, hoping he’s not going to follow that up with more questions.
“What happened to you?” Finn asks.
It’s not that I don’t want to talk about it; it’s just that I don’t want to burden this man with it. I know the more we get to know each other—the more he gets to know the real me—the more I’m going to get attached.
