“If you’re not sure you’re getting into a good situation, ask for my opinion. Tell me what’s going on and I’ll tell you if it’s legit. I’ve been involved in design for a while. I’ve worked with a lot of great people, but I’ve worked with a lot of fuckheads too.”
I shut my mouth because I sounded like a know-it-all idiot. The waiter brought dessert, some chocolate goo with smears of raspberry garnish that looked like blood.
“Mahogany sacrifice,” I murmured. “Next season’s colors.”
Chere burst out in laughter that was too loud for the opulent surroundings. The couple next to us looked over in disapproval and I glared at them until they looked away. Chere covered her mouth with her napkin.
“Sorry,” she said, catching her breath. “Am I making a scene?”
“Yes, you fucking are.”
That sent her off into more peals of laughter.
“Eat your fucking dessert,” I scolded. “The chef worked very hard to make it look as if the cake was slaughtered. It’s all the rage. Primal patisserie.”
“Stop,” she begged. She had tears in her eyes. Not angsty tears for once, but laughter tears. She finally managed to compose herself. “I’m sorry.”
“I’ll make you sorry, you fucking slut.”
She grinned at me over a bite of cake. “I love when you’re in a flirty mood.”
I stared into her dark eyes, into lust and humor and miraculous acceptance. No other woman would consider those words flirting. I’d never let her go to Hong Kong. If she tried it, I would stop her. I’d fucking tell her no, that it wasn’t allowed.
“I don’t want you to leave the city,” I said.
“What?”
“When you look for jobs, look for something in New York. In Manhattan, if possible. I don’t want you to leave the city.”
I’d told her so many times that I wouldn’t interfere in her life, or do anything to affect her career. I saw the confusion in her silent regard.
“I can’t fuck you if you’re not here,” I explained, which was the basic point of this conversation.
“You work outside New York all the time.”
“But I come back. I’m here. I want you to be here too.”
She was suddenly very interested in the tablecloth.
“What?” I said impatiently. “Am I being unreasonable?”
“Well, I mean…” She looked up at me. “Do you get to choose where I work? Which job I accept?”
“I’m only explaining that you need to work in the city or there’s no fucking point.”
“No point to what?” She hunched up her shoulders and glanced around the glittering room. “What are we doing, Price? Where is our thing going?”
Fuck. I hoped she wouldn’t ask that, because I didn’t fucking know.
“Are you going to start up with the girly shit again?” I snapped, because the best defense was a good offense.
“It’s not girly shit. It’s a legitimate question. I have to make some decisions about where my life’s going.”
“And?”
“And,” she said, with a barely restrained eye roll, “are we headed anywhere, like, commitment-wise?”
Neither one of us touched our plates of chocolate cake. They sat between us, berry stained monstrosities.
“I mean, I just want to know,” she said.
I sighed and pushed the cake to the side. “I thought you were done with relationships. I thought you wanted us to stay detached. You know about our ‘thing,’ Chere. I want to fuck you. I want you available for fucking. Are you going to start whining about your feelings now, and my lack of commitment? Because I’m not going to put up with it.”
“Oh, are you going to leave?”
Fuck!
It was a perfectly timed and scathingly executed reminder that I didn’t hold all the power in our anti-relationship. It put me off my game for a moment. The waiter brought the check, providing me some time to gather my shit.
Why was she pressing me for these kinds of answers? We’d both agreed we didn’t want to get embroiled in some complicated relationship. I took out my card and studied her stiff posture, her guarded expression. I wished I had the laughter back.
“This is stupid,” I said. “You just graduated. Why are we discussing this tonight?”
“Because I just graduated.”
“So what? Nothing has to change. All I said was that I wanted you to get a job in the city. That’s all.”
“You can’t make those decisions. Unless…”
“Unless what?” I asked, even though I knew the answer.
“Unless we’re a couple,” she said. “A committed couple.”
I snorted. “Is that what you want, Chere? That hot fucking mess?”
“It doesn’t have to be a mess.”
“Any relationship with me would be a mess. Trust me. You’d end up a miserable wreck, and you’ve been there, done that, right? You said you didn’t want that again.”
“A miserable wreck? Really? You keep saying how bad you’d be for me, all dungeons and torture all the time, but I don’t believe you.” Her steady gaze skewered me. “You give me poetry. You have feelings. I know you have feelings,” she repeated when I looked away.