After two more texts, the food arrives.Â I donâ€™t worry about finding something to say because Wesley does all the talking.Â About his ex-girlfriend.Â With his mouth open.Â Which is not a pretty sight, especially when the meal is moussaka.
The longer the evening drags on, the lower my heart sinks.Â Wesley’s arrogance online is only a front for his acute case of narcissism.Â When he isn’t talking about himself, he talks about his ex-girlfriendâ€”or texts her.Â I lose count after the eleventh time he texts her back.
“Do you want dessert?” he asks hurriedly.Â I get the impression he wants me to say no.
“No, thank you,” I decline.
“Good, we can get back to my place sooner.”
He tilts his head like he thinks I’m a loon for not catching his meaning.Â “We’ll head back to my place, pop open a bottle of wine, and take it from there.Â And you can spend the night.Â I’m not the kind of guy who just kick a girl out after he gets what he wants,” he adds generously.
My jaw drops.Â “And just what is it you want?”
He makes another annoyed sound.Â “What I want?Â It’s what I expect.Â I mean, come on, I buy you dinner even though you blatantly misled me into thinking you were someone else.Â I think I deserve something in return.Â And besides, you’re so fat you obviously haven’t had any since you tipped the scale two hundred pounds ago.Â You’re aching for a bang.Â So what’s the problem?”
His phone buzzes for the umpteenth time and he picks it up.Â I throw my napkin on the table and shove my chair back with a screech on the linoleum floor.Â “You are,” I hiss and stomp off.
“Hey, wait a minute, where are you going?” he calls.
I keep my eyes on the floor, avoiding the stares of the other patrons and hustle out the door.Â The crisp night air is refreshing and I take in a deep breath.Â I’d never been so humiliated in all my life.
I look both ways and spot a bus stop two blocks down and start walking in that direction.Â Bus service runs late in the downtown area so I know I can catch a ride.Â Sands is on voluntary stand-by in case I need out of the date but I am too embarrassed to call.
“Isabella, wait,” I hear Wesley and quicken my pace, which isn’t very fast.
“‘Isabella’.Â He won’t even call me by the name I go by,” I mutter.Â Briefly, hopefully, the thought occurs to me that maybe he is trying to be a gentleman and is coming to apologize.
He catches up, grabs my arm and yanks me to a stop.Â “Where do you think you’re going?Â How dare you walk out on me like that?Â I’ve never been so embarrassed.”