I tried to see Brandon from the corner of my eye. He was smiling. Brandon’s beard hid his lips, but not enough. Things have been lighter since.
I’m enjoying myself. We made some pointless small talk. We discussed business because that feels safe. He flatters me by asking honest questions, not like the things he’d ask the airheaded daughter who knows nothing of her own. Our rhythm becomes easier, then easy. We’re talking land, lending, big strategy, and ten-year plans. Around Brandon, I almost feel confident, like my father’s stand-in rather than his lackey.
I don’t think Brandon is telling the truth about his sister — that she left without telling anyone because of an emergency — any more than he told me the truth about the picture. But at this point I care a lot less. Bridget is gone. I made a joke about how I’d miss her conversation, then immediately wondered if her voice issues were a sore spot and I’d gone too far. But Brandon laughed, wry, grumbling good-naturedly that he’d miss her meddling too.
Brandon sips his scotch. It smells like gasoline when he waves it under my nose, offering a sip. After the third goading offer, I finally agree. It’s awful stuff. It makes my nose flare and burns going down.
“That’s how a man drinks,” he says, smiling.
I giggle a little, knowing it is indeed a stupid little giggle, and exhale. There’s one of those quiet moments, but rather than being tense, Brandon is still smiling. His eyes are friendly and soft. Under the table, his knee is inches from mine, and I feel a strong desire to lay my hand atop it.
“You don’t smile much,” I say, feeling bold.
“I’m smiling right now.”
“That’s because you’re drunk.”
“I’m not drunk.”
“You’re lubricated,” I correct.
“Well, you’re lubricated, too.” But then he seems momentarily embarrassed even through the haze, because the notion of a girl being “lubricated” has a bit of double meaning.
He breaks the awkwardness by pretending he didn’t notice then says, “What, do I come across as stodgy?”
“You’re very serious.”
“Am I? I’m really not.”
“Well, you look it.”
“I don’t. What, did you think I was an asshole?”
“Past tense?” I say. Then I smile to soften the statement, to make it clear as a joke.
“I’m not,” he says, seeming a trifle offended. “I just don’t smile much, I guess. But that doesn’t make me serious.”
“Only compared to you.”
“What does that mean?” And now I’m the one who, to my own ears, sounds a trifle offended. What, I’m all giggles and unicorns? Nothing hardworking and intelligent to look at here, folks. Just another dumb blonde with rainbows in her head.
“You’re just very ebullient.”
“‘Ebullient’?”
“It means happy. Bubbly.”
“I know what it means. I’m just surprised that you do.”
“What, because I’m just a construction worker?”
“You’re Vice President of Land Acquisition,” I say, raising my glass.
“Not yet.”
“Soon,” I say. “He likes you a lot.”
“How ebullient of you.”
There’s another moment of quiet, and I find the courage to speak. But I’m also aware, despite my lubrication (in its multiple variations), that I’m nervous enough to require courage. Why is that? Brandon isn’t even my type. Yes, he’s hot. Yes, he’s ambitious, and I’m hardwired to melt in the face of ambition. And yes, he’s overcome some bad stuff, tripping my admiration for people who refuse to settle. But at twenty-seven, he’s a bit too old for me. He’s too serious. And there’s that beard.
“What is with the beard?” My eyes flick away and down as I ask. My hand comes up almost of its own will, and I realize I’m touching my hair, suddenly sure it’s out of place. My airheaded blonde hair, which almost certainly isn’t his type, either.
“I like having a beard,” he says, as if that’s an answer.
“Bullshit.”
His lips pull into a wide smile this time, almost like a joker’s. It makes points of his mouth. It’s probably a beautiful thing without all that hair in the way, but even with the beard I don’t mind. Beards scratch, sure. But Brandon’s looks soft, and it takes everything inside me not to reach out and see for myself.
“What?” I say.
“It’s just cute to see you swear.”
I’m sure I’ve sworn in front of him before. I also wasn’t shy at school, with my friends. But that’s a side I’ve been hiding. He’ll assume I was in a damned sorority if I let him down that road, and I definitely wasn’t. My friends went to crappy diners and dive-bar concerts. It’s definitely not my first go-round at being called “cute,” though, and more than once one of my male friends had to save me from a drunk admirer with a mohawk.
“Cute.”
“It’s not bad to be cute,” he says, apparently noting my tone.
“So you think that’s what I am. Cute.” It’s a trap question. Because of course he should think I’m cute, but he also shouldn’t.
“Sure,” he says, unabashed.
I’m not as offended as I should be. But if he says “sure” so easily, does that mean it’s what everyone else at Life of Riley thinks? It’s definitely what my father thinks.
“I’m more than cute.”
“I get that,” he says, the coat hanger smile still on his lips.
“I swear plenty.”
“Yeah? Let’s hear it.”
“Fuck,” I say.
His eyebrows go up. “The big one, right off the bat.” He sips. “That’s kind of hot.”
“I thought it was cute?”
“It’s hot to hear you swear because you’re cute.”
I suppose this is a compliment. It’s also an uncomfortable one, and I’m not tipsy enough to miss the awkward part coming if we keep heading down this road.
Brandon leans back and twists his lips up at one end as if thinking hard.
“How do you know Johnny Rotten?” he says.
“Who?”
“John Lydon. The singer from the Sex Pistols.”
It’s a strange question. I’m sure my face twists a bit when I reply. “What makes you think I know him?”
“I saw a picture of you with him on LiveLyfe.”
My expression twists farther. “Why were you on my LiveLyfe?”
He looks suddenly embarrassed. “Oh. I don’t know. Job research.”
“You’re stalking me,” I joke. But something about the idea that he’s spent time looking me up makes me feel warmer than what I already feel from the wine. Now I really want to lay my hand on his knee. The restaurant is clearing out a little, and the empty space makes me want to kiss him. Nobody would need to know. But then again, that’s the kind of thing Old Riley would do. The action of a hormone-fueled teenager.
“I was looking up Life of Riley, and you’re connected, so I — ”
I decide to save him. “What’s Johnny Rotten to you?” I ask. Because the picture isn’t labeled; it’s just another upload I never bothered to caption. Who recognizes John Lydon today? This isn’t Johnny Rotten from the liner notes of Never Mind the Bollocks. This is Lydon as he is now, decades later. And that’s even ignoring that the Pistols’ heyday was before both our times. I can thank my vintage friends at college for introducing me to that old scene. But what’s it to Brandon?
“I like punk music. Well, all sorts of music, really. But enough to know Johnny Rotten when I see him.”
“He doesn’t even look like Johnny Rotten anymore. Would you recognize Sid Vicious, too?”
“I would,” Brandon says, “if he wasn’t dead.”
I raise my glass: trick question passed.