Was Reed Luca my version of a perfect partner?
I didn’t have a fucking clue. But, like I said before, I refused to take a long enough pause to understand it all. I just wanted to let it all fall into place organically, without wasting time questioning every little thing.
The instant I stepped through the sleek glass doors of Marlowe’s, I spotted the girls and headed for their table. This was a popular restaurant in San Francisco that made you feel like you had been submerged in hipster the instant you stepped through the doors. Between the laid-back ambiance and the homemade French fries doused in horseradish aioli, I was a big, big fan.
“Sorry I’m late, guys,” I said and sat down in the chair across from Abby and Jen.
“No big deal.” Jen shrugged. “We’ve just been enjoying some cocktails while we were waiting.”
My eyes narrowed. Something was up.
The waitress came up to our table and set a menu in front of my seat. “Can I get you something to drink?”
“I’ll just take a water with lemon for now.”
“Would you like to wait for your other guest to arrive before you order?” she asked with a friendly smile.
“Yeah, that’d be great, thanks,” Abby responded and avoided my questioning gaze.
“Sounds good.” The waitress nodded. “I’ll grab some waters for the table.”
“Thanks,” I said, and the instant she walked away from the table, I looked back and forth between my friends. “Other guest?”
Jen ignored me. “Do you know what you’re getting to eat, Ab?”
“Uh, I’m not sure yet,” Abby responded and stared into her menu like it had the ability to teleport her somewhere else.
“Who else is coming to dinner?”
Half of my heart sped up, thinking that maybe, just maybe, it would be Reed.
“Girls! Girls!” A poorly executed British accent filled my ears, and I closed my eyes tightly in hopes that maybe I was hearing things. “I’m so sorry I’m late.”
Yeah, I knew that awful excuse of a posh London accent anywhere.
Simone was the mystery dinner guest, not Reed. Fucking hell.
I had the urge to click my heels together and start chanting, There’s no place like home, there’s no place like home. If I’d had on red, glittery heels and a dog named Toto, you bet your sweet ass I would’ve at least given it a try.
“Oh my God, you wouldn’t believe what happened to me on my way here!” she exclaimed and sat down in the chair beside mine.
Oh, fantastic. Even better.
I gave up the good fight and opened my eyes, only to be hit with the vision of Simone in lace and velvet and her boobs defying gravitational limits I wasn’t sure NASA had approved.
We’re definitely not in Kansas anymore, Toto. We’ve somehow taken the Yellow Brick Road to the land of fake and freaky.
And here I’d been feeling guilty about being thirty minutes late. No wonder these two devious bitches had begged me to have dinner tonight. They needed a goddamn buffer.
“Oh, I had no idea we were dressing down tonight,” Simone said, successfully offending everyone in one fell swoop, and I fought my fight or flight response. One solid punch to the nose or haul ass out of there? Neither seemed swift enough.
“Is anyone going to ask me what happened to me on my way here?” she questioned, and her face scrunched like she’d just sucked on a lemon.
“What did you say you’re going to get, Lola?” Jen asked.
I brought my hands to my hip and cranked up my middle finger like a jack-in-the-box so she could see. But for the sake of being polite, I pasted a fake-ass smile on my face as well. “Definitely the French fries.”
“Good choice,” a male voice chimed in, and I looked up to find three thirty-something men dressed in suits and ties standing beside our table. “Marlowe’s has the best French fries in San Francisco.”
I looked to my friends to see if they were as mystified by his presence as I was, but not one of them was looking at me.
“Sorry to interrupt,” he continued. “But we’d love to buy you beautiful ladies a drink to go with your dinner.”
“Oh, no need to apologize,” Jen said with a flutter of her eyelashes.
“Definitely no need to apologize,” Abby added with a coy flip of her hair.
“What brings you handsome gentlemen out for the evening?” Simone joined in, dropping her fake British accent into what I guessed was her attempt at a seductive purr.
The conversation continued on around me, but I just sat back and existed. I couldn’t bring myself to participate as I watched my smart, beautiful, capable, and confident friends interact with these men. Like chameleons, I witnessed each of them change from the versions I knew and loved—well, tolerated in Simone’s case—into something I didn’t recognize. All three of them laughed a little too much, smiled a little too easily, and chatted in this sugary-sweet tone that had me cringing internally. It was like they were being the versions of themselves they thought these guys wanted them to be instead of the people they actually were.