Total pages in book: 46
Estimated words: 42889 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 214(@200wpm)___ 172(@250wpm)___ 143(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 42889 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 214(@200wpm)___ 172(@250wpm)___ 143(@300wpm)
Carson sent me the name of our dinner spot, a restaurant called Highlands that’s way fancier than typical college fare. It’s the kind of place that parents take their kids to celebrate graduations, or alumni take their rich friends to celebrate being rich. I arrive a little early, tugging at the hem of my dress to keep it from riding up too high. I’m clutching my purse at my waist and trying to keep my balance in heels when Carson pulls up to the valet station.
The flickering lamps outside the restaurant make everything look warm and romantic, which means I don’t stand a chance when Carson steps out of the car. Between the lighting and the perfectly fitted dress shirt he’s wearing, he looks like a guy from a fantasy dream sequence.
He doesn’t try to hide the fact that he’s looking me over, starting at my legs and dragging his gaze up my body, to my eyes. He grins, the smoky look that delights and frightens me, as he walks over.
“You look amazing,” he says, standing close enough that I’m forced to tilt my chin up to look at him.
“It’s my roommate’s,” I blurt out. “I didn’t have anything nice enough to wear here.” Why did you tell him that? What the hell is wrong with you, Astrid?
He continues to watch my anxiety mount, and I get the distinct impression that my nerves please him. He puts his right arm around my shoulders lightly, and guides me to the restaurant door. I wonder if he can feel me quivering at his touch. I wonder if he likes it.
We’re seated in a far corner near a fireplace. The employees clearly know him, thought they all seem surprised to see him here with a date rather than a family member. “Is Mrs. Slate not in town, this time?” the waitress asks.
“No,” Carson says, clearing his throat. “Not this time.”
“And Mr. Slate—“
“No,” Carson cuts her off. The waitress doesn’t seem surprised— she was prying, and she knows it. “This is Astrid, a friend of mine. She’s a reporter for the Bowen Blaze.”
“Pleasure,” the waitress says with false warmth as I nurse the sting over being called a “friend”. I mean, it makes sense— what else do you call someone writing an article on you, who you talk through masturbating late one night? “Friend” is definitely the easiest, broadest term, and a lot less complicated than the alternatives. The waitress vanishes for a while, returning with a bottle of red wine that Carson didn’t even order. She pours us both glasses, and I start to swirl mine a little, like I know you’re supposed to do in fancy restaurants. I’m relieved when Carson doesn’t bother, opting to just drink his straight away, as if it were water.
“I guess you come here often?” I ask as I sip my own wine.
Carson shrugs. “My family likes this restaurant. My dad knows the owner.”
“From where?”
“I have no idea. My dad knows everyone, to be honest. It’s just how he is.”
I bite my lip, thinking about the last item on Devin’s list: HIS FATHER HIS FATHER HIS FATHER. This is as good an opening as any to test the limits of asking questions about Dennis Slate.
“Are you guys close? You and your father and brothers, I mean?” I ask.
Carson looks to me, and his eyes narrow a bit. “Let’s get through dinner before you start with that, Astrid.”
I look away. “Okay. Sorry.”
“It’s fine. It’s your job,” he says, and seems to mean it. He goes on, “Is that what you want to do after college? Write for a paper?”
“Honestly? I’d rather write novels. Something more creative. But my parents don’t think writing is a legit career anyway, so writing fiction was way out. So, I’m majoring in journalism to keep everyone happy.” This rolls off my tongue easily, because I’ve said it a thousand times before, and I’m grateful for the chance to say something well-rehearsed instead of fumbling through a conversation.
Carson seems impressed, and nods thoughtfully. “And yet here you are, stuck interviewing a football player.”
“What about you? Can you tell me any more about what you want to do after you graduate?” I press.
Carson considers this, studying me. “I think I need to explain something to you, Astrid.” I nod, and he goes on, never looking away, never doubting his own words. “You know that I don’t date. That I don’t sleep around. I have to stay focused on the game— there’s too much going on in my life for me to get distracted by anything else. But…now I’m finding myself incredibly distracted by you. And that’s a problem.”
“Oh,” I say, trying to stomach the dagger his words just pushed into me.
He continues. “I thought that after our phone call the other night, I might be satisfied. And then I thought that seeing you at the practice, reminding myself that you’re a reporter— I thought that might do it. But here we are, and you’re asking me interview questions, and I’m thinking about the sounds you made when you came the other night.”