Page 54 of Friendshipped
“I’m not here for the whole gang, Trevor. I’m here for you.”
Is it hot in here? Or is it me being suffocated to death one adoring comment at a time? How do I tell her gently that I’m not interested in anything more than friendship?
Maybe I’m reading into this.
I take another sip of water. Then I flag down the waiter for more water. I’d order something stronger if I weren’t driving.
“So, Trevvy, tell me all about your job at the paper.”
Trevvy? She never called me that in high school. Did she? No. I would have definitely borne the scars if she had. And I’d never ever live it down. I send up a silent plea Lexi never hears Meg call me Trevvy.
At least I can talk about work. It spares us having to dissect me being the reason she relocated across two states. It’s possible she didn’t move here for me, but she sure made it seem that way. I tell her about my job as a food critic as our food arrives and we start to eat our salads.
“You could cook for me,” Meg offers between bites.
“I haven’t been cooking much lately,” I admit.
“Really? Why not?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Well, we need to change that. Let’s plan for me to come over and you can cook for me. I can cook with you if it will help. I’ll send you times I could come, and you pick one that fits. Mkay?”
It’s a sweet offer, but with as strong as she’s been coming on, I feel like I need to put up lots of roadblocks. Having her to my place feels like a bad idea on so many levels.
I hear my mouth say, “Sure.”
Sure? Not sure. Not sure at all. Actually no. But I’ll tell her when she sends options for dates. Or I’ll be busy. Very, very busy.
It’s not that I don’t like Meg, it’s just this night has felt like taking a super huge gulp of pop and having it go up your nose the wrong way. I enjoy my cola as much as the next guy—in moderation and with room to breathe between swallows.
Meg grabs her phone. An instant later mine buzzes. So, she meant now. She’s sending me dates now.
“Go ahead,” she says. “Pick one.”
“I’d rather chat.” I say. “I’ll pick one later.”
“Oh. Okay,” she says, reaching across the table and stroking my arm like it’s a cat.
Long strokes. From my elbow to my fingertips and back up and all the way down again, and again. I can’t really extricate my arm because that would be awkward—as if being stroked like the family pet in a restaurant isn’t.
Mercifully, the waiter comes. He looks down at my arm, at me, at Meg. He looks at my arm again.
“Can I get you a pet? Um. Er. Ap-pet-tizer?”
“No thanks,” I say.
Appetizer means a longer meal. Nope. We’re strictly on the main course program tonight. Maybe no side dishes to be safe.
Meg’s possibly pouting. I’m not relenting and ordering an appetizer.
Was she this needy and forward in high school? If so, I don’t remember it. But we were younger, and I was so eager to have a girlfriend and to be distracted from my confusing, one-sided feelings for Lexi. Maybe she was like this and I didn’t notice. I’d ask Lexi, but she’s so skewed when it comes to Meg, she couldn’t give me an impartial assessment. I’ll ask Rob.
“We’re ready to order,” I say when the waiter looks like he’s about to leave to give us more time.
“We are?” Meg asks.
“Can I order for you? Or do you have something in mind?” I ask her.
