“I’m not sure why I’d do that,” she said, “and anyway, it’s almost seven. Sort of last minute.”
“Did you eat yet?” I asked.
“No, but—”
“Then come to dinner with me,” I said. “I’ll take you wherever you want and I’ll buy, okay? Consider this a peace offering. I want to make this biscuit thing work, and we’ve got to get along if we’re going to do it.”
Another silence, but this one was less fraught. I could picture her, pacing back and forth, tugging at her hair in that cute nervous gesture she had. I remembered that gesture well, remembered a lot of her gestures, like the way she rocked slightly when she was bored and stuck in class, or the way she smiled with her eyes all scrunched up, or the way she laughed, head thrown back, barking up at the sky.
“If you’re buying, I want to go somewhere expensive,” she said, sounding suspicious.
I grinned at the bare white refrigerator. “Sounds good to me.”
“Pick me up at the same spot you got me this morning,” she said. “How’s a half hour sound?”
“I’ll see you then.”
She hung up and I stared at my phone for a few seconds before tossing it down onto my couch. The apartment felt so empty and quiet, and I was happy to get out of it for a while.
Even if it was to go to dinner with a woman that still despised me for a very stupid mistake I made back when I was a dumb, desperate kid trying to get out of a very bad situation.
Alpen Rose was packed, even on a weeknight, and I was lucky to get us a table near the bar. We were jammed in between a group of older women that were apparently discussing some thriller book they’d all read, each of them wearing glasses with flowing floral blouses and short haircuts and very serious expressions on their faces, and a couple of young men taking shots and laughing loudly. The contrast between the groups wasn’t lost on me, and Jude did her best to ignore them both.
She looked fantastic. She wore a simple navy button-down shirt, the top two buttons undone to show a hint of her chest, her hair down and thick and curly around her shoulders. I felt comparatively underdressed in a pair of jeans and a sweater. The restaurant had the feel of some rich man’s library: everything was wood paneling, and the silverware felt very home-style. A large bookshelf built into one wall was lit from beneath and ancient leather-bound books were jammed together. Two enormous crystal chandeliers hung above it all. The bartender had a thick, long beard, and looked like he chopped wood for fun.
“I’ve never been here before,” Jude said, looking around with a tight smile. “I heard it’s good.”
“I hope so,” I said, and the guys one table over took a shot of something, then laughed at each other, and one called the other a big fucking bitch, and they all started pounding the table. The bartender shot them a look and they stopped, but they kept on laughing loudly. I wondered if I was ever that obnoxious, and knew that I probably was at one point in my life.
“Honestly, Bret, I don’t know what you expect out of this,” she said, frowning at me a little as she brought her glass of wine to her lips. I watched her drink, and wondered why I’d never kissed her before, even back then. We were supposedly just friends—but we were more than friends, and the tension between us was almost unbearable.
“I was hoping we could find common ground,” I said, shrugging. I had a glass of whiskey, and it burned on the way down, which was good. I needed the alcohol. The frat bros and the book club were both putting me on edge.
“Okay then,” she said, leaning toward me, lips pressed together. “Here’s my common ground: I want to get through this with as little contact with you as possible. How’s that sound?”
I shook my head and watched her carefully. “That’s unacceptable.”
“I’m not sure you have much say in this.”
“We’re going to work together, whether you want it or not,” I said, forcing myself to remain calm. I couldn’t have a repeat of earlier today. “I know you despise me, but—”
“I don’t despise you,” she said, interrupting me. I leaned back, a little surprised.
“You sure as hell seem like you do,” I said.
“I don’t,” she said, shaking her head, and touched her fingers to her glass, but didn’t lift it to drink. “I’m angry still. I’m resentful. But I don’t hate you.”
“That’s a good start then,” I said, nodding a little to myself. “So you don’t hate me. We can work with that.”
She rolled her eyes. “Don’t get excited. Just because I don’t hate you doesn’t mean I want anything to do with you.”