Page 10 of The Fadeaway
When I don’t acknowledge his comment–and yes, I know exactly how he likes it – tall, cream, two sugars, and a side of tits and ass to go, he speaks his order, “Tall house roast with cream and two sugars.”
Wordlessly I grab a cup and fill it with coffee, leaving an inch for the creamer and sugar I add next. I know he’s staring at me as I complete the task and I know when I turn around it’ll be appreciation I see in his eyes. That look gets me through the week.
When I turn, his dark eyes lift slowly until he’s studying my face.
“Anything else?”
“How about dinner tonight, Kitty?”
Direct and to the point. Interesting approach. I’ve gotta give it to him he’s been far more persistent than I ever predicted. My heart thumps rapidly against my brain’s better judgment. My body sings, but I lift one shoulder noncommittally. “Sorry, not interested.”
We play this game every week. He hits on me and I turn him down. He thinks we’re playing the longest game of hard-to-get ever.
We’re not.
Or, I’m not anyway. I have no intention of being had. The pickup attempts, which I actually sort of love, will never be good enough. I mean if things were different, I probably would have pulled him over the register the first time we spoke. Being with Joel would be fun and crazy hot, I’m sure. But things aren’t different. I’m not the kind of girl that Joel Moreno dates, if he seriously dated at all. Casual seems to be all he’s interested in and my life is scheduled, routine, and doesn’t exactly lend itself to quickies in the stock room.
But for two minutes every Thursday, I get to pretend I’m just a regular college girl flirting with the most popular guy on campus. And I’d be lying if I said I don’t also indulge in a little harmless daydreaming about what those quickies in stock rooms, bathrooms, alleyways (hey, they’re fantasy) might be like.
I’m not sure why he keeps coming back when I’ve given him no indication I’m going to change my mind, but I think at this point he just wants to prove he can have any woman he wants. He’s clearly not used to rejection.
He probably thinks I’m making this a challenge for sport’s sake, but if he really stepped back and thought about it, he’d realize that he doesn’t even really want me to say yes. Maybe he’s already figured that out. He never pushes – never asks me twice or calls me out on my lame excuses. Subconsciously, I think he looks forward to me shooting him down every week.
I’m quite possibly the last loosely hanging thread that holds his ego in check. The next time he’s banging some lucky girl he’s going to do so with a satisfaction that couldn’t be found if he didn’t have my weekly ‘no’ to ground him to the possibility of rejection. When you win all the time, the game isn’t fun. I’m the pesky loss each week that makes him work harder and appreciate the wins all that much more.
My legacy at Valley U may very well be the motivation that urged Joel Moreno to win over every other girl on campus. You’re welcome, ladies.
With a nod, he hands over his credit card for the coffee. I take my time, drawing out the process to delay his departure.
“See ya next week.”
As he walks away, I finally take him in – every gorgeous inch–and I let myself believe it’s all real. That he really did ask me out hoping I’d say yes and that he’s going to spend the next six days mulling over how to break me down. I want him to fantasize about me the same way I fantasize about him. That’s all he can ever be. All I can be to him. I’m okay with that. Fantasy is almost always better than reality and Joel Moreno is my perfect fantasy. Why mess with that?
After my morning shift at the café, I sprint across campus to Adams Theater. It’s the first day of rehearsals for the spring play. Every semester the screenwriting department teams up with the theater department to put on an original performance written and performed entirely by students for a Spring Showcase. This year is the first time a junior’s play has ever been selected. My original play, The Tragic Love Story of Hector and Imelda will be performed in just a few months and I’m so nervous I feel like I’m going to throw up any time I stand still long enough to think about it. Which is thankfully not often.
My advisor, Professor Morrison, the screenwriting department head, is standing just inside and greets me. “Katrina, I was just talking about you. Meet Brody Bradley.”
Brody Bradley. His tongue twister of a name works because he’s the kind of guy that couldn’t possibly have a normal name. Someday he’ll be on Broadway or starring in an Oscar-nominated movie and crowds will go wild for him.
“Nice to meet you.” I shift my backpack up higher on my shoulder and offer my hand.
“Brody here is going to be your Hector.”
MyHector.
Anxiety on high, I shiver when his big hand encloses mine and bright green eyes take me in. If I hadn’t seen him perform, I’d be worried. His personality is big and charming – loud. Nothing like Hector’s understated appeal. But I’ve seen Brody pull off crazier. Last semester he played the phantom in a re-telling ofThe Phantom of the Operaand brought me, and the rest of a sold-out show, to tears.
“I’ll leave you two to chat. Excuse me.” Professor Morrison places a hand at his waist in an almost bow-like gesture and steps away from us.
“So, you’re the screenwriter huh?”
“Aspiring. Yeah.”
“Not aspiring anymore. I’ve read the script, it’s good. I’m really excited about it.”
“You are?”
One side of his mouth lifts and he cocks his head to the side like he’s trying to figure me out. “Of course. Come on, let me introduce you to everyone else.”
