Shit. Without any excuses of last-minute work meetings or family emergencies in my arsenal, I was officially real fucking late for dinner with Abby and Jen.
“That’ll be $20.15,” the cabbie said as he slid the shifter into Park.
“What?” I questioned with squinty eyes and an opened mouth. “That cab ride was over twenty dollars? This restaurant is, like, four blocks away from my apartment.”
He shrugged. “Sorry, sweetheart, but cab fares have gone up since Uber took over.”
“Jesus,” I muttered and pulled out a twenty-dollar bill and three singles. “Uh…thanks, I guess.” I tossed the money into the front seat and hopped out of the cab in a hurry.
Our dinner reservation was for 7:30 p.m., and it was a staggering thirty-two—now thirty-three—minutes after that. Well past the time frame that would be considered excusable to Abby and Jen. They were both punctual to the point of anal retentive and expected everyone within their atmosphere to be the same—especially Abby. If her date wasn’t five minutes early, he might as well just start the night with, “Hey, sorry I’m late. Obviously, I’m an asshole.” Over twenty minutes late? He might as well just not show up.
So, unless I had actually managed to set my hair on fire while blow-drying, there weren’t many excuses that would win me a warm greeting tonight.
I could say that writing had made me lose track of time, but that particular apology had bags under its eyes it was so tired. Plus, it was a lie.
Rather, I’d spent my day people watching with Reed at Golden Gate Park, making it a game to provide the inner monologue of each passerby. I almost hated that he had such a knack for fictional narration.
When a thirty-something guy—decked out in a neon yellow tracksuit—had run by us while shouting into his Bluetooth, Reed had narrated, “Listen, Mary, I told you I can only wear Lycra and spandex from now on… No… I can’t wear skinny jeans anymore… Goddammit, Mary! I told you I’m a neo-hipster now! … No, it’s not the same fucking thing! It’s different… Well, basically it’s where you’re a hipster, but since hipsterism has gone so mainstream, you dress and act like a regular person.”
And when a middle-aged woman in yoga pants had strolled past our bench with a white fluffy dog wearing a sweater knitted from hemp, Reed had brilliantly fictionalized, “It’s been a really rough week. Fido is only seven days into the vegan challenge, and he’s having a hard time with it… Oh, God, no, I’m not too fussy with his new diet. He can still eat anything that’s gluten-free, sugar-free, dairy-free, unprocessed, fair-trade, and organic.”
I hadn’t been able to keep a straight face through the entire game. By the time he’d started monologue-ing Fido’s thoughts on his new diet, I’d laughed loud enough to gain the attention of everyone in our vicinity, including the pigeons.
It’d been over a week since we did the horizontal tango, and I’d yet to grow tired of Reed Luca and his games—and he had a lot of them. Lying to each and every acquaintance and getting them to play along, in an attempt to look like they weren’t completely in the dark. Calling random places pretending to be employed or previously employed and disgruntled. Shopping for combinations of items that often lacked explanation and acting as though it was completely normal—even asking for pigeon milk and farm-raised sugar when we’d stopped for coffee on the way over there.
I almost liked his games as much as I liked him.
And I liked him.
Somewhere along the way, hate had morphed into dislike and then reincarnated itself into lust, and then, like had blossomed. I liked Reed. Probably too much. But I couldn’t help it. That intriguing bastard was too much fun. Infuriating bullshit columns aside, I couldn’t not like him.
You don’t just like him, my mind whispered, but I refused to take a long enough pause to understand what the hell that meant. Maybe it was avoidance. Maybe it was denial. Maybe I was just compartmentalizing. But no matter the reason, I knew I wanted more of Reed—more time, more words, more touches, more kisses, more, more, more.
I had no idea what we were or where we were headed, but it didn’t matter.
I’d never been the type of girl who needed labels. I preferred to live in the moment and let things evolve naturally. I didn’t want a man who was loyal to me out of misplaced obligation. And I definitely didn’t want the pretenses and the insecurities that so often came with those misplaced obligations. I wanted a partner who freely, willingly, and openly chose me, and I didn’t need, or necessarily want, promises or labels or marriage to achieve that.