Cynda and the City Doctor: 50 Loving States, Missouri

And he didn’t give me a chance to answer before climbing out of the car to go around.

My whole body crumpled over for a few moments, completely deflated. But really, I had nobody to blame but myself. I’d been letting him not yet me for over a month. Now here I was again, frustrated as a big dog after trying to teach this ridiculously hot fool how to drive.

I heaved myself out of the car with a sigh and crossed in front of the hood as Rhys went around the back.

“Right, now that the question of teaching me to drive is settled, why don’t we turn our minds to eating,” he suggested as he slipped back into the passenger seat. “It’s too early for our original reservation, but there’s a little French restaurant called Brassiere by Niche just a few blocks down from my flat. They might not be too busy to let us in.”

Without answering I reverse out of the alley and easily blend into traffic, this time going the right way. A few minutes later we stop in front of the luxury apartment with views of Forest Park on one side and the rest of the Central West End on the other. Unlike my typical four-story brick apartment in the Grove, Rhys’s building is sleek and so high, I can’t see the top of it from inside the car. I had come to know the sight of it well after picking him up and dropping him off for a few of our dates. But he’d never invited me up to see where he lived.

“No, love, the restaurant is a few blocks down,” he said when I put the car into park. “This is my flat.”

I killed the engine and answered, “Get out.”

“So you prefer to walk?” he asked into my resentful silence.

“Get out,” I repeated, staring straight ahead.

“What about brunch?” he asked. “I was rather looking forward to that.”

“No brunch. The only thing I’m serving up is a huge ol’ plate of we’re done here. So please get out of my car.”

Rhys didn’t move. “Is this about the kiss in the alley?”

“No, it’s about all the kisses, Dr. Prince,” I answered, throwing up my hands. “It’s about all the things we haven’t done because you’re too busy playing mind games with me.”

“I’m not…” He let out a harsh breath. “I’m not playing mind games with you.”

“Then why won’t you just fuck me already?” I asked, nearly yelling.

“Because I want you to understand,” he answered, his voice almost as angry as mine.

“Understand what?” I demanded.

“That you like me. Even without the sex. The sex will make it even more wonderful. The things I want to do to you, Cynda.”

He raised a hand, stretching it toward me, but then yanked it back at the last moment. “But I can’t…I can’t have you ghosting me because you don’t like my flat or my subscription to The Economist.”

“You read The Economist?” I asked.

“Yes, it’s a credible, balanced, and intelligent source of news. Especially in comparison to the reality show you Americans call broadcast—no, no,” he cut off his explanation with a resolute shake of his head. “I will not let you pull me into yet another amusing but otherwise trivial aside. My point is, I don’t want to be another fellow on your list.”

“Why not?” I asked. “If I call it, you’ve got like half the nursing staff waiting for the rebound.”

“Perhaps,” he conceded. “But I like you. I enjoy your company and I would very much like to continue seeing you. However, I wasn’t sure that would happen without the anticipation of sex. You do have a reputation among my colleagues for being lovely and charming…until you decide the fellow isn’t worth it.”

Everything he’s saying is technically true. I competed in beauty pageants all my life and my mom raised me to be what she referred to as all woman: beautiful and fun and charming when I wanted to be. And the opposite of all those things when I was done.

But this didn’t feel like truth. It felt like an insult. “So you’re judging me for having standards?” I asked him. “For being picky about who I see?”

“The thing is, I don’t believe you are picky,” he answered quietly. “I think you’re scared. Scared of getting close. Scared of intimacy.”

“So now you’re trying to analyze me? Get in my head?” For reasons I can’t fully explain, my voice sounds desperate and my chest is tight with dread.

“No, Cynda, I’m not trying to analyze you. I’m trying to figure out how to keep you,” he suddenly roared, surprising us both.

But before I can read him for yelling at me, he raises a hand and says, “I’m sorry for shouting. It’s just that I like you. A lot. I can’t stop thinking about you, if we’re telling the truth. And as I said, I don’t want to be the bloke you ghosted for some silly reason that can really be summed up as fear.”