Page 45 of Host for the Holidays
I pierce some lettuce with my fork and take a bite. My nose scrunches a bit as I chew the bitter leaves.
“What is it?” Josh asks, fork hovering above his own salad.
I keep chewing and swallow. “Nothing.”
“C’mon, Mads. Is it gross?”
“No. It’s just . . . there’s not very much dressing on it, but it’s fine.” If salad dressing is like makeup, I want my lettuce with the full coverage foundation and contouring treatment.
Josh gets distracted looking down at his phone. The length of time he spends looking at it and the way his eyes move tells me he’s not just checking the time; he’s reading something.
“Josh?”
He looks up at me, but it’s like he’s not even seeing me.
“Everything okay?”
He blinks. “Let’s get you more dressing.” He looks around for a waiter.
“No, no,” I hurry to say. “It’s fine.” I would much rather scarf down rabbit food than have a confrontation with a French waiter.
Josh stands up. “If I’m paying for a salad for my girlfriend, I want her to like it.” He drops his napkin and goes in search of the restaurant staff. He’s all about the customer being right. Somehow, I don’t think the waiter will share that opinion.
I shift in my seat, wishing I could just toss the lettuce into the planted pot nearest me and forget I ever ordered it—or that Josh ever did. Maybe I should see this as an endearing way for him to stand up for me, but I just feel uncomfortable. I wish he would have listened to me when I said it was fine.
Needing distraction, I take out my phone and navigate to my email, opening the one sitting at the top of my inbox. It has tickets that take us to the top of the Eiffel Tower. That’s right. The ones that require you to get in an elevator that takes you up to 905.93832 feet above the ground.Josh doesn’t know I bought them yet.
It was my way of saying, “I’m on board for the ride,” but right now, I’m thinking of pleading temporary insanity—or telling Josh it was just a mistake. 905.93832 feet up, people! And yes, every decimal place matters.
My phone vibrates. Wait, nope. Not my phone. Josh’s. It must have slipped out of his pocket when he got up because it’s sitting on the edge of his seat, about to fall off. I grab it and set it in the middle of the table, feeling particularly protective at the moment of anything in danger of falling to an untimely death. Yeah, it’s only a couple of feet, but to an iPhone, it’s the equivalent of falling off a two-story building.Or the Eiffel Tower.
Gosh, my brain is morbid right now.
The screen on his phone is lit up from the text.
Dan Vincent:Sorry, man. I thought I could make it work. Next time, just gimme a little more notice, and I’ll move around my schedule.
My heart plummets down to the pit of my stomach. 906 feet. I’m rounding up.
Dan Vincent isn’t coming. Apparently, Josh didn’t give him enough notice. Is that why Josh has been acting weird? He’s been nervous Dan Vincent wouldn’t show? How much notice did hegivehim?
I glance up, looking for Josh, but he’s still not back.
Still down in the pit of my stomach, my heart is racing, and I swipe to unlock his phone. The conversation with Dan Vincent comes up.
Josh (10:34 p.m. last night):Hey, Dan. My girlfriend is interested in helping out with our marketing photography. Any chance you could meet us for lunch at 12:30 tomorrow? We’ll be at Les Deux Canards.
Dan Vincent (11:07 p.m. last night):My day tomorrow is pretty slammed, but I’ll try to move things around and make it.
Dan Vincent (12:58 p.m. today):Unfortunately, looks like lunch isn’t gonna happen today.
And then, one minute later, the text I already saw.
I swallow, staring and staring.
Last night. Josh gave the guy twelve hours of notice for this lunch meeting—the meeting we’ve been talking about for weeks. The one that was supposed to be my ticket into the future. Not only that, but he makes it sound like I’m some high schooler hoping to get some experience for my resume rather than an experienced, degree-holding photographer looking for a career.
I tap out of the conversation, hoping if I stop looking at it, it’ll stop making me feel like . . . like what? Whatisthis feeling?
