After two more texts, the food arrives. I don’t worry about finding something to say because Wesley does all the talking. About his ex-girlfriend. With his mouth open. Which is not a pretty sight, especially when the meal is moussaka.
The longer the evening drags on, the lower my heart sinks. Wesley’s arrogance online is only a front for his acute case of narcissism. When he isn’t talking about himself, he talks about his ex-girlfriend—or texts her. I lose count after the eleventh time he texts her back.
“Do you want dessert?” he asks hurriedly. I get the impression he wants me to say no.
“No, thank you,” I decline.
“Good, we can get back to my place sooner.”
“Excuse me?”
He tilts his head like he thinks I’m a loon for not catching his meaning. “We’ll head back to my place, pop open a bottle of wine, and take it from there. And you can spend the night. 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. “And just what is it you want?”
He makes another annoyed sound. “What I want? It’s what I expect. I mean, come on, I buy you dinner even though you blatantly misled me into thinking you were someone else. I think I deserve something in return. And besides, you’re so fat you obviously haven’t had any since you tipped the scale two hundred pounds ago. You’re aching for a bang. So what’s the problem?”
His phone buzzes for the umpteenth time and he picks it up. I throw my napkin on the table and shove my chair back with a screech on the linoleum floor. “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. The crisp night air is refreshing and I take in a deep breath. 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. Bus service runs late in the downtown area so I know I can catch a ride. 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’. He won’t even call me by the name I go by,” I mutter. 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. “Where do you think you’re going? How dare you walk out on me like that? I’ve never been so embarrassed.”