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“You call taking that Doctenn actress out to a wine bar the weekend before last only slightly more recently?”
“That was like half date, half work,” he poorly argues. “We did more networking than flirting.”
“I suppose now is not the time to point out why that’s worrisome.”
“Precisely,” my best friend brushes off with a crooked grin. “Now is the time for me to give you a few basic pointers.”
Adjusting my cuffs is attached to my response, “I’m listening.”
“Remember that this isn’t a business meeting or a conference call. Conversations shouldn’t be interrogations. Bryn’s interested in learning about you not what you can do for her; therefore, you should treat her accordingly rather than like someone who has mistaken you for the mark that you are desperate to prove you aren’t.”
A grunt of comprehension is given.
“Also, tell her the truth about what you're hiding at the beginning of the meal versus later. That’s not the elephant you want in the room when you’re shoving back rice or risotto.”
This time it’s more difficult to face his reflection.
“You have survivors’ guilt, Wes. You know this. You’ve talked about this. You’ve been diagnosed with this.”
Shame threatens to send my stare elsewhere.
“Let her decide whether or not you’re as guilty as you have deemed yourself to be over the past ten years. Let her decide whether or not you’re worthy of her forgiveness, just like you did her mother.”
Disgust over my own actions that caused the loss of Bryn’s father along with my scars begins to swell deep in my throat.
“Trust me. If I’ve come to know anything about that bombshell over the past almost week, it’s that Star Trek: Voyager is her least favorite series of the franchise and that she prefers to do all her own thinking.” The slight eye twitch he’s delivered is mindlessly executed. “You’re pissed I called her a bombshell, aren’t you?”
More than he realizes.
“One more suggestion.”
My brow lifts in curiosity.
“Don’t sleep with her on the first date.”
The accusation not only stitches annoyance into my expression, it has me sharply turning to confront him. “What?”
“Bryn’s not exactly the type of chick opposed to doing that on the first date-”
“You’re implying that she sleeps around?” Folding my arms firmly cross my chest precedes a displeased huff. “That maybe this is just about sex for her?”
“If this was just about sex, she would’ve just offered that when you asked her out.”
Relief makes a move to rest on my shoulders.
“All I meant was Bryn likes to do shit Bryn’s way, which means it may not be off the table; however, for your sake – the man who hasn’t been out on a date in over ten years and slept with someone in even longer – it’s not a bad idea to wait.” A small shrug is wedged between statements. “I’m just sayin’ you don’t have to squeeze first date, first kiss, and first fuck all into one night.”
“I agree with Mr. Reese, sir,” Clark unexpectedly interjects, pulling both of gazes over to where he’s standing in the closet doorway.
“Why so proper, Alfred?” J.T. skeptically interrogates. “What sort of trouble were you just into?”
“No trouble.” His hands fold professionally in front of him. “I’ve simply spent most of the day in that mode, so to speak. Lauren’s duties require the more formal language when being tended to, and the interview I was summoned for with Hawthorne and Park required the same as opposed to the more laidback conversations I’ve come to enjoy with them over tea and lemon shortbread cookies.” Mirth dances freely around his expression. “And don’t ever offer Hawthorne the last cookie unless you indeed truly do not want it.”
My best friend chuckles while my expression remains stoic. “What were they questioning you about?”
“They’re questioning all of the staff per procedure.”
A low disapproving grumble rattles in my chest.
