This time, I used a different app, making sure I didn’t type any of Chiara’s attributes in the filters. My date is a redheaded businesswoman from Canada. I’ve always gotten along with Canadians, so I figured why the hell not? The plus side is that she looks nothing like Chiara or my ex-wife.
The date is going well. The conversation is flowing smoothly, and Sarine, my date, has even made me laugh a few times. I’m at ease, but so far, the intelligent woman opposite me hasn’t made me feel anything else. I could take her back to my place and fuck her—something Sarine already hinted she’s more than willing to do—but sleeping with her just for the sake of cleansing my palate feels wrong.
“So, I have a confession to make.” She looks at me from under her eyelashes. A lopsided smile unfurls on her lips.
“I’m listening.”
“This is the first time I used the app to score a date. My sister is the one who set my account up as a joke.”
“I believe that’s a normal occurrence.” Or people just use that excuse to pretend they aren’t desperate.
“Right, but that’s not the confession. I only agreed to this date because I recognized you.”
“Oh?”
And that’s when I know the evening will go downhill faster than a speeding car without brakes. There’s nothing that can put me in a fouler mood than when people want to bring up my celebrity past. It was a breath of fresh air that Chiara had no clue who I was. And even now that she knows about my past, she hasn’t brought it up.
“We watched The Lockharts religiously at my house when I was a kid. Of course, my favorite character was yours. You were my first crush.”
My reaction is to clench my jaw hard. I don’t know what to say. I never do in these situations. This isn’t the first time someone’s told me I was their first crush, but it’s the first time a date has mentioned it.
Sarine notices my hard stare and drops her gaze to her plate. “I’m sorry. You must hear that all the time.”
“I do.”
I could have tried to make her feel better, but I’m honestly not in the mood to appease anyone. It’s not Sarine’s fault I get annoyed easily when someone mentions my ten-year stint on the family-oriented TV show. Nor is it her fault that talking about it inevitably brings Jamie to the forefront of my mind, and with that, the guilt.
“I want to know all about it. What was it like on the set?”
How about great until I lost my best friend?
Grinding my teeth, I draw our waiter’s attention. I’ll need something stronger than wine to make it through dinner.
“It was work. So, you only have one sister?”
“Oh come on, Alistair. You can elaborate more than that. Did everyone in the cast get along?”
“Yes.”
“Do you still keep in touch with them?”
“No.”
My monosyllabic answers don’t seem to clue her in that I don’t want to talk about my glory days.
“What happened to Jamie Lewis was so sad. I’ll never understand why he did it.”
Fuck me. She had to go there.
When the waiter finally approaches our table, instead of asking for another drink, I hand him my credit card.
Sarine’s jaw drops as a glint of surprise shines in her eyes.
“Is there something wrong, sir?” The waiter eyes my barely eaten dinner.
“No, nothing’s wrong with the food.”
I don’t elaborate further, letting the guy draw whatever conclusion he wants. Sarine’s glint of surprise vanishes. She’s now glaring at me.
“Are you going to bail on me? I thought dinner was going great.”
I drop my napkin on top of my sixty-dollar uneaten steak and stand up. “It was nice to meet you, Sarine. Enjoy the rest of your evening.”
I head after the waiter because waiting for him to bring my card back while sitting at the table with Sarine is unnecessary torture. I catch her entering a cab when I walk out of the restaurant. If the story she told me about her sister setting up her account on the dating app is true, I’m sure she’s on the phone with her right now. In the back of my mind, I know what I did was a douche move, but I’m too fucking busy battling old demons to care.
I should drive straight home, but instead I go to the last place on earth I should be.
The Brandywine Hall building looms in front of me. Parked across the street from it, I make a mental list of all the reasons I shouldn’t be here. I ignore all of them as I get out of my car.
It’s my luck—or demise—that someone is walking out and I’m able to slip into the building. I have no idea what apartment number Chiara’s is, but that mystery is quickly solved by looking at the names on the mailboxes.
I forgo the elevator in favor of the stairs, taking them two at a time. There’s a reason for my urgency—if I take too long, my sanity will return, and right now, I don’t want to have common sense.
Once in front of her apartment, I ring the doorbell. When I don’t hear anything, I knock instead, hard.
“I’m coming!” she says from somewhere inside.
The door opens, and the sight of her robs me of air. Her hair is disheveled, and her cheeks are flushed. I wonder for a second if I interrupted her with someone. Jealousy surges through me, suddenly and violently.
