“If u don’t want 2 tell Marj I will tty 2mro,” he answered.
“Ty. Nite,” she sent and washed off her makeup, relieved.
Chapter 5
Britt tried to think of ways to get out of the date with Chris. She couldn’t tell him she had a boyfriend because, obviously, she didn’t have a boyfriend, plus there was the fact that Marj and Beard Boy were going to see each other later in the week. He could conceivably tell Duckie that Marj’s friend claimed to have a boyfriend and then bingo, Marj knew. So she figured she’d have to suffer through the date, tell Marj he was a dud and that might get her friend off her back about being single for a while.
She dressed in skinny black pants, a sparkly top. She touched her Trina Turk tunic fondly, recalling nostalgically how Jack had teased her about its being too short to wear in public. Britt put her hair in a ponytail. She liked it that way, no matter what Marj said about it. She met Chris at an Italian restaurant down the block from Tamarind, where she’d met Jack. It gave her a pang of guilt, like she was cheating on him.
Chris was wearing skinny jeans, arguably tighter than her own pants were, a vintage-looking bowling shirt and a leather jacket that had seen better decades. It was way too hot to be wearing a leather jacket so she assumed he was suffering for the sake of some misbegotten style choice. She complimented him on looking nice.
“Thanks. You look nice too. I was hoping for another dress like the red one you had on last night.”
“It was blue,” she said flatly.
“No, I’m positive it was red. I have an excellent memory.”
“It’s my dress, Chris. I bought it. It’s blue,” she insisted.
“I’m afraid you’re mistaken but it doesn’t do to argue with a lady,” he said smugly. She already wished she hadn’t come.
“So, are you ready?”
“Yes,” he said and they went into the restaurant.
It was fisherman themed, with fishnets hanging from the ceiling and great wooden oars on the walls. Britt looked at the menu and forced herself to be cheerful. Being churlish would only make it seem like a longer evening.
When the waiter brought them waters and a basket of bread, Chris waved it away.
“No, we don’t need bread. I’m gluten free,” he explained. “Do you have any gluten free pastas?”
“No,” the waiter said shortly, still holding the offending basket of bread.
“None at all?” Chris said in disbelief. “Also I’ll need a Coulson’s Springs water. Organic if you have it.”
The waiter snorted as he walked away.
“I don’t really know what I’ll eat here if it’s not gluten free pasta.”
“Salad?” she suggested. “You picked it. I assumed you ate here.”
“No, it’s just close to my apartment and cheaper than Tamarind.”
“I see. Would you rather go somewhere else? Or call it a night?”
He sighed deeply. “No. We can eat here. Maybe they have something.”
The waiter returned with her wine and his bottle of water.
“This isn’t Coulson’s Spring,” he objected.
“We do not carry that brand. This is Italian, but it is organic,” the waiter said a bit pointedly, his eyes darting to her. She repressed a grin.
“I don’t like Italian water. I only like American water.”
“Our tap water is very American,” the waiter offered.
“No, bottled water. Why would you carry Italian water? You’re in America.