“I was thinking I might like to go the teaching route,” Stephen says sheepishly. “It seems like a nice, secure sort of life.”
I have to fight not to cringe at the words nice and secure. I know all about what it’s like to have a nice, secure life—at least on the surface. I grew up in Fairfield, Connecticut, about the nicest place you could possibly imagine. I lived in a nice house, with a nice green lawn, a couple of nice cars parked in the driveway. My parents were nice people with nice jobs and two nice little daughters (not to mention the brigade of nannies who raised them). But all the niceness didn’t keep our family from crashing and burning hard.
“You OK, Kassie?” Stephen asks, snapping me out of my reverie.
“Huh?” I say dumbly.
“You just got this really troubled look,” he says, stepping toward me, “Is everything all right these days?”
He tries to take my hand in his, but I pull it back reflexively. My date has officially overstayed his welcome.
“I’m fine,” I tell him, sipping heartily from my glass, “I’ve just got a lot of work left to do tonight, is all.”
“But it’s Saturday,” he laughs tensely, “And we’re...you know...on a date.”
“Yeah. We went on a date,” I reply, “We’ve had our date, and now...you now. It’s over.”
“Do you want me to leave?” he asks, surprised.
“I have some stuff to do,” I say vaguely, “I just don’t want to get behind with the semester wrapping up and everything. I mean, we got dinner, and saw that movie. Don’t you think it’s time to call it a night?”
“Oh...Um...” he blusters, shoving a hand through his short, dark hair, “I just figured we could maybe spend a little more time together. When you invited me back here, I guess I assumed...you know.”
A flash of annoyance scorches through my mind as he stalls. This always, always happens to me. Every time I let a guy come home after a second date, fool around a little, he always mopes around like a sad puppy looking for a treat. I feel my attraction to Stephen wane in a heartbeat as he shifts back and forth on his sneakered feet. This is what I get for dating boys, rather than men.
“Look, Stephen,” I begin, “I had a really good time tonight. Can’t we just leave it?”
“I’d rather not,” he replies, his smile becoming brazen, “I’m having a really good time. Maybe you could pour me some of that Jim and we could just hang out? Get to know each other a little better.”
“I think we should hold off on that,” I insist.
“Until next time, you mean?” he asks hopefully, “When can I see you again?”
I take a deep breath, trying to keep the irritation out of my voice. “You see me all the time. We’re in all the same classes—”
“No, I mean...see you. Spend time with you,” he says, smiling bashfully, “I’ve had a crush on you since we first started grad school, Kassie. And now I feel like I’m finally getting a chance to know you.”
Oh boy, I think to myself, I’ve got a damned romantic on my hands. What poor Stephen doesn’t know is that I don’t do third dates. Not ever. I’m not a total puritan—I like to flirt, and make out, and get off as much as the next girl. But I don’t do relationships, or deep, emotional talks, or crushes. I don’t really have the stomach for any of that.
“Let me stay for a while,” Stephen urges, laying a hand on my shoulder.
“Dude,” I say, shrugging him off, “I don’t want to be rude or anything, but I really just want to get back to work tonight. OK?”
“No. It’s not really OK,” he says, trying to mask his hurt feelings, “I was looking forward to spending the night with you. I mean, I think I’ve been treating you pretty well. Making sure you’re taken care of...”
“Ah. I see,” I grin sarcastically, “You’re just annoyed that you didn’t get laid. Is that it? You got me off, and now you expect me to pay you back by sleeping with you.”
“No!” he exclaims.
“The laddie doth protest too much,” I rib him, butchering Shakespeare along the way, “Well, I hate to burst your bubble, but I don’t really do the sleeping around thing.”
“What are you talking about?” he says, “We just—”
“Had a little fun,” I cut him off, “That’s all. Can we please not make this into a scene, Stephen? I don’t have the energy right now.”
“I can’t believe this,” he scoffs, slamming down his mug, “It’s pretty common knowledge that it’s impolite not to sleep with a guy after he goes down on you.”
“I must have missed that ethics lecture,” I say dryly.
“It’s just really uncool of you,” he mopes.
“Stephen, sex isn’t something that you owe people,” I say, exasperated, “I’m sorry if your fraternity brothers told you otherwise.”
“You just use guys to get off and toss them out, is that it?” he asks.
“Pretty much,” I quip, “It’s called having no strings attached. I would have thought you’d be used to the idea, being a guy and all.”
“Man, you must have a pretty low opinion of men,” he jabs.
“Haven’t run into many counter examples,” I say pointedly.
“Jesus,” he says meanly, “Someone’s got a bad case of the daddy issues, huh?”
My vision flashes bright white with sudden, boundless anger. Before I can even catch a breath, my arm cocks back, and I bring my palm wailing down against the side of Stephen’s face. The sharp sound of my slap echoes off the kitchen tiles, mingling with his surprised cry of pain. He clutches his reddened cheek, staring at me like I have at least three heads. I gape at him in the dim light of the kitchen, surprised by my sudden act of violence.
“What the hell is the matter with you?” he asks angrily.
“I...I didn’t mean to—” I stutter. “Did I hurt you?”
“You slapped me in the face,” he hisses, “What do you think?”
“It’s just...I got mad, is all,” I try to explain.
“Christ, you’re one crazy bitch,” he mutters, turning on his heel.