Page 11 of Intoxicated
“No?”
Drew appreciates the aroma of his wine before explaining. “I was thinking Seattle. You’re very Pacific Northwest, but a bit more cosmopolitan than what I associate with Portland.”
“Is that so? You know Seattle pretty well, do you?”
“I actually live there full time.” He puts his glass down. How that manages to make a muscle in his arm ripple, I have no idea, but I’m not going to deny a free show. “It’s true that my family has their roots in Portland, but we have properties all over the west coast. I’ve always preferred Seattle to Portland. Which is ironic, because I’ve also always fancied myself a country boy at heart.”
I snort. “A country boy.”
“I may not look it, but I’m a handy guy. Spent last weekend building a bookshelf for…”
“The poor?” I suggest.
“My grandmother.” He doesn’t miss a beat. “She lives in Eastern Washington. I visit her quite often, really. She has a little piece of paradise up there.”
Eastern Washington. Really. That hell-hole? I’d rather drive through rural Oregon than get stuck in Eastern Washington. You want to know where west coast rednecks originated? Somewhere east of Centralia.
The Bentons and Eastern Washington do not compute. That’s one of many things I’ll have to investigate before I take things any further with Drew.
“I don’t really get along with my family, honestly.” He says that with a sigh. “I’ve always preferred to be a self-made man. I help out where I can, but I’d rather strike out on my own.”
“Using your family’s capital, of course.”
“Never said I didn’t have my own.”
Is that supposed to be impressive? I expect most men to have their own capital, including the trust fund losers. Nothing worse than a thirty-five year old man still living on his family’s money. He should at least be working for some of that money. I don’t care if he’s sucking the family’s corporate teat or running his own business into the ground. At least show some initiative, you know? Otherwise, a guy risks needing a mommy more than a girlfriend. I play an excellent fake girlfriend. I’m anatrocioussurrogate mother.
“So you spend most of your time in Seattle… what are you doing in Portland right now?”
“I pop in a couple of times a month to check in with my family. My mother especially hates to travel outside after her hip surgery. Can you believe it? Barely in her sixties and already having hip surgery.”
“It’s not that uncommon.”
“You would know about hip surgeries, huh?”
I shrug. Noncommittal. That’s how I like it.
He attempts to impress me with his knowledge of the wine we’re drinking, but I’ve heard it all before. Every other guy I date is a connoisseur, you know. I have a sizable collection made of gifts from previous suitors and boyfriends. They make great party favors. When I have enough friends to invite over for a party. That doesn’t happen very often since college.
I’ve burned a lot of bridges.
“So, tell me.” Drew rubs his upper lip, as if anticipating my answer before he’s asked the question. (As if I don’t know what he’s about to ask.) “What keeps you in a city like Portland? I know you said you were born here, but most people I know are fleeing as quickly as they came here. Even the natives.”
That wasn’t what I expected. (Yes, that happens sometimes. I can’t anticipateeverythinga guy is going to say. Although I like it when I do. Makes it a lot easier to keep up with my games.) I thought he was going to ask me about why I’m still single. That’s what men like himloveto ask, because it’s their way of filtering my level of crazy. Or if I’m cheating. Half the time, they don’t care if I’m cheating. Goes to show the level of ethics around this town.
Ethics that I absolutely contribute to, of course.
“What can I say?” My smile is a mile wide, which he should know is me about to lie out of my ass. He doesn’t know that yet. Because he has yet to become acquainted with my tics. Let me tell you about the smiles I’ve accumulated in my life. Thebusinesssmile. Thesocializingsmile. Themy boyfriend is fucking nutssmile. Right now, Mr. Drew Benton is getting a mix of socializing and crazy boyfriend. If he starts talking money, though, I might slip into business. “I really love this town.”
“Do you live in this neighborhood?”
“Yes.” He might as well know. Even if he wanted to stalk me, there are so many houses and apartment buildings in this area he’d have to work a little. Too much effort.
“That’s why you still love this town. Let me guess. You’re young enough that this area was already being gentrified when you were a kid.”
I was about to pick up my wineglass when he says that. Now what should I do? Sip my wine as I mull over my words? Choke on the fumes that suddenly gross me out? Or should I simply look around this wine tasting bar, located in a converted Victorian house? Like most of Northwest Portland, this used to be a predominately residential district, full of gorgeous painted ladies and parks on the outskirts of town. Now we’re practically a part of the downtown area. Tourists flock up here because of how trendy it’s been for most of my life. Drew isn’t too wrong about a few things.
“I’m not from this area, actually,” I say. “I grew up in North Portland. Over by Arbor Lodge, although I spent a lot of time in St. John’s.”
