Page 38 of Well, Actually
“Interesting you used past tense,” I say, words sharp but mercy soft as I half-heartedly step back into my role. It seems to spark fresh energy in him, and he reaches across the table and gently chucks my chin.
“Fair. But I’m a dumbass in new and exciting ways now. Ones much less clichéd and damaging than being closeted and homophobic. And I’m very grateful you’ve given me a chance to explain myself. That’s not an opportunity people get often.”
It feels like my chair is pulled out from under me, my world tipping and temple hitting the floor, the impact rattling my brain and scrambling all the things I thought I knew about this guy.
He… he sounds genuine. Like he truly is grateful to be around my hateful ass, working to undermine every notion I have about him. The idea is candied, too sweet to tolerate, and my teeth ache as the idea melts through me.
The rest of our conversation passes in a blur. I must respond, because Cooper’s eyes keep trailing to my mouth, his own curling in a smile or opening in a laugh every few minutes from something I say. I can only pray it’s nothing as soft and dangerously tender as the pressure building in my chest.
Do I… Oh good god, do I actuallyliketalking to Rylie Cooper? Have I not done anything to cure this terrible affliction in the past six years? I must be more mentally ill than I realized.
“Regardless, I’m sure I’ll knock it out of the park with our third date,” Cooper says in a way that signals a wrap-up to the episode, a smirk that’s pure, hungry challenge.
“Not gonna hold my breath, baby girl.”
“Want to give me a hint on what will win you over?” he says, leaning forward, his glasses slipping down the bridge of his sharp nose.
“And ruin all my fun? I’ll pass.”
Cooper laughs. “That’s fine. I’ll nail it without your help.”
I go to make a low-hanging sex joke, but Cooper holds up his hand.
“Now I know what you’re about to say, I’m sure it’s the same thing our listeners must be thinking:Rylie, you took a women’s study elective in college, why would you need a hint? You must be an expert on women!”
I roll my eyes so hard I see spots.
There’s a laugh in Cooper’s voice as he continues. “Well, I’m here to set the record straight by saying, yes. Yes I am. But you, Eva Kitt, are not just a woman. You have the devil in you. But don’t worry, I’ll win her over as well.”
I roll my eyes again, but a giggle bursts out of me. “You’re an idiot.”
“Yeah, I’m that too,” he says with a crooked grin.
Heat rushes through me, and I swipe my headphones off as Cooper closes out the episode. I take a deep breath to clear my head. Another. One more should do it…
It’s no use. This is all so much, and the urge to flee shoots through my muscles.
The second he turns off the recording equipment, I jump out of my seat, grabbing my jacket and purse and taking a step toward the door.
“Wait.” Cooper jerks to standing, knees hitting the edge of the table, microphone wobbling. The command, the whisperof desperation in his voice, locks me in place. He pushes his glasses up his nose, clears his throat a few times, then coughs.
“Ew, are you sick?” I ask, twisting my face into a look of dismay.
Cooper blinks for a moment, then shakes his head, laughing shakily. “No. Not with a cold, at least.” He lets out a long breath, dragging a hand through his hair, the waves springing back against the smoothing gesture. “Will you get coffee with me?”
He asks in such a rush, I process it on a delay, but my shoulders stiffen in a defensive posture like he just asked me to gargle with cyanide. “You’re in charge of making the dates,” I say, forcing my voice to be as churlish as possible. “If you want the next one to be coffee, that’s up to you.”
Cooper shakes his head again. “Not as one of the dates.” He holds up his hands, ready to block my protest. “I know. I know. You would never willingly spend time with me outside of this arrangement, you’ve made that very clear. But please, just this once, can you give me an hour over coffee where we pretend to be friends?”
His gaze is so intense, I have to look away, eyes sweeping around the room. I can’t keep them occupied for long, my attention obstinately set on returning to him. His lean frame and hands shoved in his pockets, the slight curl of his shoulders toward his ears, the tips of which have turned bright pink.
I know I need to turn him down, come up with a quick excuse or a flat-out no. Too many egregious, confusing emotions are grappling for purchase in my stomach, and I need to remember that he’s profiting from this, making strides in his career while I scramble to get away from hot dogs and nonsense. My heart beats up into my throat, and I feel jittery—exposed—like I was the one who was just brutally, beautifully honest and not Cooper. I can’t even imagine how raw he must feel.
It’s only when his eyes light up, face breaking into a smile equal parts victory and disbelief that I realize I’m nodding. I clear my throat, but my voice still comes out scratchy, “I can pretend to be your friend for an hour. Just this once.”
Somehow, his elation grows. “You won’t regret it,” he says, grabbing his coat and shepherding me toward the door.
I let out a rusty laugh, and I hope it sounds disbelieving instead of nervous. Because the way something soft shifts in my chest—a warmth radiating from the center and growing hotter along the back of my neck, like tendrils of energy are needily reaching out arms for Cooper—I already know this is something I’ll regret.
