Page 11 of Fake Date with the Mountain Man

She shakes her head.

“Alright, let’s go then.”

I stand up and grab my keys. Marlow follows me down the hallway and out to my truck. When I open the passenger door for her, I can tell that she is fighting the urge to ask where we’regoing. She’s a picky eater – just another one of her pain-in-the-ass traits.

The rain picks up again as we make our way off the main drag through town. Neither of us makes any attempt to talk over the sound of the rain on the windshield.

Gatlinburg is a whole other world once you get out of downtown. There’s still the occasional obnoxious resort or attraction, but it’s mostly quiet forests with sporadic cabins and great views of the Smokies.

When I pull up to the Little Smoky Grill, Marlow shifts in her seat uncomfortably. It’s not the prettiest place; just a prefab cabin with a dirt parking lot and a hand-painted sign.

“Have you been here before?” Marlow asks tentatively. Her hand hovers over the buckle of her seatbelt.

“All the time. I live right down the road.”

I hop out of the truck. Marlow is still glancing around as if a Ritz Carlton might appear out of thin air. Finally, she exits the truck and starts up the walkway. When I hold the door open for her, she steps inside the building like she’s half expecting a landmine to detonate beneath her. When she glances around, she looks sort of disappointed that she wasn’t blown up upon entry. It’s pretty basic in here. The chairs don’t match, and the single-use red and white plaid tablecloths have outlived their prime. But the food is good, and the owners are friends of mine.

“Hey, Ryan,” the hostess says. “Your usual table?”

I nod and we follow the hostess to a table in the far corner next to the window. Once she walks back to the hostess stand, Marlow and I are faced with the reality that there are no distractions left. To get through this lunch, we’re actually going to have to talk to one another. And since she’s the one that insisted on doing this, I’m waiting for her to go first.

But Marlow is stalling, too.

She flips the menu open and starts reading it as if she’s determined to commit the entire thing to memory.

“Oh, they have vegetarian options,” she says. Her eyebrows are raised in surprise as her eyes flick up to meet mine.

“Yeah, one of the owners is vegan.”

I may not be thrilled to be eating lunch with Marlow, but I’m not such an asshole that I’d choose a place where she can’t eat anything.

After ordering our food, there’s no more stalling.

“So, what did you want to talk about?” I prod, even though I already know. Might as well get this over with. If we keep delaying, this lunch will last the rest of the day.

Marlow clears her throat and looks up at me.

“Well, I want to start by apologizing to you for how I acted on Friday night. I was just trying to play a joke on you, but it obviously backfired. It isn’t a good excuse, but I was pretty drunk and I just wasn’t thinking clearly. I feel terrible for creating an awkward situation for you and your… friend.”

It’s the most rehearsed apology I’ve ever heard.

“It’s fine. Like I said, we can just pretend it never happened.”

“Okay,” she says. “So, that’s…it?”

“What else do you want me to say, Marlow?”

“I don’t know. I just figured you would be a little more upset than this.”

I shrug.

Marlow watches me for a long minute. I know what she’s trying to do. She’d rather I lose my temper with her than just forgive her. It fits better with the version of me that Marlow has created in her head.

The rest of lunch is tense and awkward. We mostly listen to each other chew. On the drive back to the office, we listen to radio commercials for insurance companies on full blast.

Pretty sure Marlow Stephens will not be asking me to lunch again anytime soon. And that suits me just fine.

Without a word, we both retreat to our offices for the rest of the afternoon.

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