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“What?”
“Stop apologizing. Don’t apologize to the waiter. Don’t apologize to me.”
“I don’t?—”
“You’re getting your PhD, right?”
I glance down, just to make sure I’m not wearing one of my quirky, Psych joke t-shirts. I’m not. “That was just a lucky guess.”
“I’m a lawyer,” he quips. “I don’t make guesses. You mentioned grad school and I asked around at Precious Meadows about you.”
“Oh.” I sit back, burrowing my fingers deeper into Flew Bacca’s feathers. “Well, yeah. I am.”
Why does the idea of him asking about me make me feel … what, exactly?
Self-conscious, definitely. But something else too. Noticed, maybe? Seen.
I stir my drink with the tiny swizzle straw. “What’s your point?”
“According to Anthony, you’re about six months away from having a PhD. That makes you the smartest person in this room. Probably. Ergo, you shouldn’t be apologizing to anyone. Not to me. Certainly not to the pretentious wait staff.”
I make a huff of annoyance.
What is it about this man that makes me want to fight with him? Even when he’s complimenting me?
Or maybe it is that he’s complimenting me?
I’m not sure, but I do know this: being the sole focus of his attention is unnerving. I’m not used to people paying so much attention to me. And I’m certainly not used to arguing with people. I’m not a fighter by nature. I’m a peacekeeper. Normally, I bend over backwards to be likable and affable. It’s one of the things I’m working with my therapist to overcome.
But something about Martin just rubs me the wrong way. Something about him makes me want to push back.
He studies me from across the table. “Whatever is brewing in that mind of yours, go ahead and say it out loud.”
I narrow my gaze. I can’t very well tell him what I’ve actually been thinking. I’m not going to admit that he gets under my skin in a way no one else ever has.
So instead, I pick apart his comment. “Okay, let’s say for a second that I am the smartest person in the room—forget that we have no way of knowing or quantifying that. Let’s just pretend it’s true. That doesn’t mean I shouldn’t apologize if I behave badly.”
“I’m not saying it does. If you were rude or cruel, then sure. Apologize. But you did nothing wrong.” He puts a hard emphasis on the word ‘you,’ somehow implying that I’m not to blame for the endless debacle my life seems to be every time I run into him. “But that’s the fifth time I’ve heard you apologize to a stranger for something that’s beyond your control.”
I sit back in my chair, scowling at him. “What? You’re keeping count?”
“Just observing.”
“Okay, but even if you’re right and those things are beyond my control, that doesn’t mean I’m above apologizing for something that’s making someone else’s life harder.”
“Maybe not.” To my surprise, he tips his head to the side as if he’s actually considering my point, not speaking again until he reaches some kind of conclusion. “But you’re not beneath them either. That’s why I have a problem with it. You don’t just apologize. You grovel.”
I suck in a breath of surprise—maybe even shock—then lean forward (as much as I can with a chicken in my lap) and whisper hiss. “Well, I’m sorry if my apologies don’t match your requirements. Or maybe I shouldn’t apologize for that and instead just tell you to mind your own clucking business.”
“Yeah. That’s better.” His lips twitch. “Also, you did it again.”
“Did what?”
“Said clucking instead of fucking.”
“I work with elderly people who tend to get very upset when I curse. I’ve adapted.”
My cheeks burn as I say it, because it feels like I’m apologizing. But for what? Not cussing like a proper adult?
