Page 33 of Well, Actually
Lilith rolls her eyes at him. “This whole… whatever this is,” she says, twirling her wrist. “This experimental dating, make-up thing. Seeing each other again after so many years.”
“Well,this”—he gestures at the table—“isn’t one of the dates, this is just glorious happenstance.”
For some reason this delusional man looks at me for confirmation, and I tut like a disappointed grandmother. He turns his attention to Ray. “Eva makes no secret of her love of hanging out with me, so this probably just made her week. I’m going to change her ringtone to ‘Obsessed’ by Mariah Carey after this.”
Ray’s laugh is uninhibited, and he leans around me to look at Aida. “I’m sorry, but I kind of love him. He gives it right back to her.”
“Be careful how you respond to that or I’m taking you both off my Spotify family plan.”
“Don’t let her bully you,” Cooper says, pressing his lips into a line against his fighting smile.
“Because what you let her do to you on your own podcast this week was…?” Aida nudges.
Cooper laughs again. “Touché.”
“Should I leave?” I ask, getting dramatic. “Seems like I’mnot even needed in this conversation since you all want to talk about me like I’m not here.”
Ray and Aida roll their eyes in unison, and I focus my attention on Lilith, returning to her original question. “Yes. It’s all very weird and very annoying. It’s like being in some psychological experiment without a governing body for ethical oversight.”
“Gosh, you know how to stroke a fella’s ego.” Cooper flashes his dimple.
I ignore him. “So far it’s just been an artificial and curated date that I then had to give a play-by-play recap for all of Pedro Pascal’s internet to dissect and comment on. But at least I can say he’s living down to my expectations. I’ll always take satisfaction in being right.”
“That last bit kind of sums up dating men in general,” Aida says. The server lets out a tiny snort of amusement as she sets down a round of mimosas, and I’m mortified that Cooper and I flash her matching grins.
He gently touches her arm before she can leave and leans up to whisper something in her ear. Jesus, he might as well suck on the lobe for how close they are. I can’t believe she’s giggling at whatever he’s saying instead of running away screaming. When he finally lets her go, she nods and winks at him, a blush fanning across her cheeks.
I grind my teeth and look away. Poor girl. I should probably warn her. Instead, I gulp down a hefty amount of my drink, letting the bubbles float to my head and trying to think of anything besides the way Cooper’s lips ghosted near the server’s skin. My lovely brain lands on how brutal everything’s been since the first recording released.
I’ve turned off notifications on social media, overwhelmed by every person on every app wanting to give me their every opinion on this whole thing while calling me a raging bitch at a rate that isn’t exactly surprising but doesn’t make me laugh quite as much as I thought it would.
I know that’s the point of it all, and William’s thrilled (cold, humorless, straight-to-the-point) email yesterday telling me about the spike inSausage Talktraffic and cross-promo stuff with Cooper’s podcast has made the powers that be very happy. There was even another dangle of that promotional carrot at the end with encouragement to keep up the good work as the dutiful dancing monkey. Hell, even my Babble posts have seen a substantial hike in engagement. But the bitter, loud part of my brain is regularly reminding me that all of that attention is thanks to this asinine social media charade and not any actual journalistic talent on my part.
I want to ask Cooper if he sees the comments. I want to ask him what goes through his head when some kind soul calls me hot or hilarious. If he feels quietly justified when the majority of people call me mean and say he’s too good for me. But, more than anything, I want to know what hethinks—about me, about this, about our past, about the fucking weather and what bodega has the best bacon, egg, and cheese—and I hate that damn curiosity that’s only been growing since he reentered my life.
“Call me old-school,” Ray interjects, saving me from my own spiraling thoughts, “but I prefer the thrill of seeing a date crash and burn in real time.” We all look at him. “Don’t get me wrong, your little podcast thing is hilarious and all”—I could kiss Ray for referring to Cooper’s livelihood and careeras alittle podcast thing—“but there is no higher form of living art than witnessing a terrible first date or dramatic breakup in the flesh.”
Lilith lets out a choked laugh, hiding her smile behind the rim of her champagne flute.
“Like, I don’t mean to call attention—”
“You literally get out of bed each day for the sole purpose of calling attention,” Aida interrupts.
“But the table over your right shoulder”—he nods toward Cooper—“is about two minutes away from full screaming breakdown.”
With the subtlety of a wrecking ball, Cooper whips around to look right as a broken sob from the table in question echoes toward us. On instinct, I reach across the table, grabbing his face between my hands and pivoting his head to look back at me.
“Be chill for one minute, I’m begging you,” I whisper, eyes locked on his. Cooper’s pupils dilate, nearly eclipsing the silver of his irises, his glasses falling down the bridge of his nose.
I try not to notice his swallow or the weighted breath he lets out that tickles the sensitive skin of my wrists. I ignore the gentle shift of his cheeks under my palms as his mouth curls up in an inevitable smile. I have absolutely zero awareness of the trace of his tongue across his bottom lip, his low, nearly laughing voice as he says, “You better talk me through it, then.”
My hands drop from him like he burned me, his words creating a deep flush from the tips of my fingers to the apples of my cheeks. If Cooper has any awareness of the innuendo he painted in my mind—his lips parted and lids heavy with lust, words likegoodandyesandright therepanted out under twistedbedsheets—he doesn’t show it. Instead, he quirks a questioning eyebrow, smiling innocently at me, then at the table, waiting for an update on the disaster unfolding behind him.
“He’s shaking his head mournfully,” Ray whispers, eyes fixed on the couple.
“She’s clenching the sides of the table so hard her knuckles are white,” Lilith adds, shifting in her seat so it looks like she’s facing Cooper when really she’s spying over his shoulder. “Leaning across the table now. Fringe from her infinity scarf just dipped into her egg yolks.”
“Infinity scarf? Good god, what year is it?” Cooper mutters.
