“French fries it is,” he says against my slightly ajar mouth. “And more beer. God, Kitty Cat, our job sucks.”
Before we start for the den of saturated fat, he shouts, “Nicely done, Burke!”
His cohort is still standing near the two girls, appearing to flirt with the one who wanted him. I receive a dirty look from the one who wanted Barrett for herself.
I’m not petty. I don’t play games. But I can’t help flashing her a smile as I put my hand in Barrett’s and walk with him to the food truck.
Chapter 15
Catarina
After inhaling our salty, heavenly fresh cut fries, Barrett and I wander over to an outdoor patio for some real food. The area is typically reserved for drinks for some of the ritzier events at the museum but has been modified to accommodate diners specifically for the long day of imbibing.
We pick one of the wrought-iron tables outfitted with cushioned chairs. Barrett’s kicked back, legs stretched out in front of him, sunglasses on, elbow resting on the chair’s arm. The sun sits hot on my back. The gentle breeze from earlier is a memory. I order an ice-cold glass of water and the lunch special: grilled fish tacos with fried plantain chips. Barrett follows suit.
I take a long gulp of my water. “Ahh. I needed that. Drinking beer in the sun is tough business.”
He rests his glass on the coaster in front of him, his lips quirked. “Mia won’t like that we’ve given up.”
“Given up? I don’t follow.”
“I thought we were supposed to get tanked and reenact a reality-show hot tub scene. Here we are, eating and rehydrating like responsible adults.”
I can’t help laughing. “How many reality-show hot tub scenes have you witnessed and/or participated in?”
“Several on both ends.” He grins, the big bad wolf.
“What about this alleged long-term on-again-off-again girlfriend? Did you skirt around when you were ‘off’?”
“Excuse me. I’ve watched my share of The Bachelorette.”
“That wasn’t an answer.”
“Well, the answer is none of your business.” He drinks his water and I wait. He takes another drink.
“Tell me about the girl who held the heart of the bad boy of the NFL for six years.”
“On and off,” he interjects.
“Still.”
“Kitty Cat.”
“I’m a reporter. I can’t help my natural curiosity. Indulge me.”
He sits up and leans across the table, his ocean-blue eyes hidden behind the mirrored lenses of a pair of expensive sunglasses.
“Her name’s Beth. We started dating when we were kids.”
“Kids, as in the fifth grade?”
“College,” he corrects. “I sat next to her in Applied Sciences. She smiled at me, and I was a goner.”
“So, she’s pretty.”
“Very.” He dips his chin.
“And you two argued enough to break up several times?” I guess.
Either frustration or regret flattens his mouth. I’m surprised when he answers. “We argued a lot. Over stupid shit. Then I was drafted by Miami and the move to Florida prompted another breakup. Six months later, she moved down there.”
“She moved in with you.”
“Yep.” He leans back again, face pinched, head turned. Topic over. But I’m not done yet.
“And that was it?”
He shakes his head gravely. “Why do you want to know? You’re not writing about it.”
“I’m shamelessly nosy. Comes with the job.”
He huffs in agreement.
“Please?” I press my palms together. A few silent seconds tick by before he gives in.
“She lived in Florida for a while, and then we had another argument and she moved back to Ohio. I stayed in Miami and ultimately injured myself. Once I was out of the game permanently, we reconciled, and I moved into her apartment here in Columbus.” He spins his water glass on the table. “She booted my ass out, so I lived with my buddy Dax for a few months. Helped him redesign his new bar until I found a place of my own.” He shrugs. “And that was it.”
“Are you sure? You two have found your way back to each other every other time. Why not now?”
“Trust me. I’m sure.”
“Did one of you stray?”
“Cheat? No. I don’t cheat. Neither does she. Things just became...hard.”
I know exactly what he means. North and I had our share of dumb arguments and avoidance, and neither of us cheated, either. Sometimes breaking up is as easy and as complicated as two people who can’t work out their differences.
Our lunch arrives and we dive in.
“Maybe our story should revolve around you and Beth reconciling,” I say. “Readers love a second chance.”
He finishes his tacos, swipes the cloth napkin over his mouth and, still chewing, watches me from behind mirrored shades.
“Maybe our story could revolve around the way you want North back.”
My stomach pools with disgust. “I don’t want him back.”
“I don’t want Beth back.”
Put in my place, I forlornly nibble a plantain chip.
“Thought the story was about us,” he says a few minutes later. “About you and me.” He pushes the sunglasses onto his head and spears me with those hypnotizing blues.
“It is.”
“You’d rather write about Beth and me than you and me?”
“There is no you and me, Barrett. We’re dating for an article. Our boundary lines are a little blurry but—”
“You like kissing me.”
“I...do not.” Lie.
“Yeah. You do. I can tell by that whimpering, mewly sound you make in the back of your throat whenever I do it.”
“That... I don’t... That’s not what I do.” I’m flustered. Embarrassed. And lying through my teeth.
“Okay, Kitty Cat.” He reclaims his relaxed posture after shoving his empty plate aside. “You keep telling yourself that. I was there for each one of those lip-presses and I know what I heard. You. Mewling. I also know what I felt: You. Climbing me like a ladder.”
I toss my napkin onto my plate, prepared to stand and storm off for another episode of I Can’t Even with Barrett Fox.
“Don’t turn tail for once,” he says. “You wanted the bad boy of the NFL as a date, sweetheart, you got him. Stick around and see where it goes. At least you’ll have somethin’ fun to write about.” He returns his sunglasses to the bridge of his nose. “Want me to do something outrageous so you have some fodder?”
“Ha!” My laughter is a touch loud and draws attention from the surrounding tables. A few gazes linger on my ginger-haired date. “Your performance on stage is plenty of fodder.”
“Oh yeah?” He grins, a cunning fox in a coat of red.
“You know it was impressive,” I mumble. “You have a nice voice.”
“Sure you wanna write that? Sounds awfully flattering.”
“Could you be more conceited?”
“Used to be,” he states. “Then I blew my shoulder and learned a lesson in humility.”