I plop my elbows on the table, throw a hand against my forehead, and peek at the diners around us. No one seems to have noticed. Except Max, of course. Max, who, despite having looked like asshole warmed over only minutes ago, now appears relaxed and unruffled as he watches me in silence.
Everything about him bothers me: his complete lack of self-awareness (genuine), his sarcasm (rudimentary), his boyish smile (insincere), his stupidly chiseled jaw that he pretends to stroke absently (totally affected), his thick so-dark-it’s-almost-black hair that I wish with all my heart were dyed so I could picture him sitting in a salon with foil strips clinging to the strands (natural, unfortunately), and so on and so on. Grrr.
We don’t mix well, that’s for sure. He pushes buttons I wish I didn’t have. But I’m stuck with him. For at least the next five weeks—and maybe more. Now he thinks I’m as immature as he is. Even worse, he’s probably questioning my fitness for the job at the Cartwright.
Take a deep breath, Lina. You can fix this. I scour my brain for something—anything—to explain my explosive reaction to Max’s needling. It doesn’t take long to settle on a cause. Stress. That must be the reason I’m out of sorts. I channel the goddess of tranquility—who bears a striking resemblance to an actor in a Summer’s Eve commercial—and say, “Max, we need to rid ourselves of this negative energy. It isn’t healthy for either of us. Let’s rewind the last few minutes, okay?”
He lets out a deep breath, proving he isn’t as unruffled as he looks. “You’re absolutely right. Sorry about that.”
I lean forward and lower my voice to a whisper. “The thing is, I’m under an immense amount of pressure, and I think it’s finally getting to me. If it were just one thing, I think I’d be okay. But in the last few days, I’ve run into one pothole after another. The bridal shop where I run my business is shutting down. The opportunity with the Cartwright, as much as I’m excited about it, brings its own set of worries. And I didn’t anticipate seeing Andrew again—not in that conference room. I’m not myself. At all.”
Well, I am being myself, but that’s not the version of me I want to present to the world—or to the man who’s already seen me at a low point in my life.
“That’s fair,” he says, frowning. “To be honest, I’m not myself, either.” He gestures at the space between us. “None of that was necessary, so let’s put it behind us. As for what to do about your stress, is there an activity that could help relieve it?” His eyes grow wide. “Like a physical activity, I mean.” He shakes his head. “A sport or something. Ax throwing. Yoga.” Grimacing, he gives me a half shrug. “I don’t know.”
I wrinkle my nose at him. “My stress relievers usually take less active forms. Watching TV, shopping, eating sweets, silencing all electronics and reading undisturbed.”
He sits back in his chair and chews on his bottom lip as he considers me. Seconds later, he says, “I take a capoeira class here in the District during the week. Tonight, in fact. It’s an awesome way to let off steam.”
I blink at him, unable to process what he’s told me. “You what?”
“Capoeira,” he says. “It’s a Brazilian martial arts—”
I roll my eyes. “I know what capoeira is, Max. I’m just surprised you’re taking it as a class.”
He raises a brow. “Why’s that?”
“Because we’ve been eating Brazilian food for the last thirty minutes and you didn’t once mention that you’re familiar with any aspect of Brazilian culture.”
It’s also intriguing. Suggests Max has layers underneath his shiny yet annoying topcoat.
He shrugs. “Oh. Well, now you know. Think you’d like to join me?”
“What? Tonight?” I scrunch my face. “No, I couldn’t.”
He nods as though he’s not surprised by my refusal. “I just figured you might appreciate doing something like that. Music and dancing mixed with martial arts. Yeah, it’s probably too physical anyway. You said yourself you prefer less active forms of stress relief.”
Our server sweeps in with my dessert, a giant brigadeiro. Max stares at the monstrosity. Yes, it’s a massive ball of chocolate with sprinkles. Isn’t that the definition of a stress reliever? And if Max thinks I won’t enjoy the shit out of this, he’s so wrong. I can eat chocolate and take a capoeira class. The two aren’t mutually exclusive. “When and where’s the class? I might stop by. Just out of curiosity.”
“The class?” He scratches his head. “Let me text you the info when I get back to the office. I can give you the details on what to wear, point out landmarks in the area. I’ll send you the link to sign up.”
“Oh, okay.” I dip my spoon into the thick bomb of chocolate on my plate. “Want to try?”
He waves his refusal. “No, I can’t. My tongue’s out of commission.”
My gaze dips to his mouth. It’s a nice mouth. Not that it matters.
“It’s out of commission for eating things,” he adds. His eyes bug out. “For eating foods.”
“Yeah, I get it, Max.”
The clarification’s superfluous, of course. The state of Max’s tongue has nothing to do with me. Still, when someone puts an image in your head that you’d prefer not to see, your brain grafts it onto your retina. Oh my God, why are images of his face between my legs flashing through my brain? Make it stop. Make it stop!
Max motions for the check and hands our server his credit card without seeing the total. “Listen, if I’m going to have any chance of making tonight’s class, I’ll need to get back to the office soon. Is it okay if I slip out after I pay the bill? Want me to order a Lyft or something?”
Shaking my head, I wave off his offer with my spoon. “No, I’m fine.” I point at the brigadeiro. “Going to enjoy this for a bit.”
The server returns with the receipts and Max signs the restaurant copy.
“Generous tip included, or do you need me to take care of it?” I ask.
“Generous tip included. Always.”
I nod. At least he has that going for him. “Thanks for lunch.”
“No problem,” he says as he stands. “Maybe I’ll see you tonight?”
“Maybe,” I say.
He gives me a knowing grin. “Okay, so probably not.”
“Maybe means maybe, Max.” I say goodbye with a wave of the fingers of my free hand. “Tchau.”
“Bye, Lina.”
I watch him weave his way around the tables and stroll out the door. Now I feel compelled to go to the class just to prove his prediction wrong. And I bet he planned it that way.
Next time I’ll give him a ghost pepper.
* * *
“Can I just state for the record that I think this is a terrible idea?” Jaslene says as we climb the stairs to Capoeira Afro-Brasilia Studio.
No, I’m not dragging Jaslene to the class just for emotional backup. She needs a stress reliever, too. Completing her college studies at night is proving more challenging than she expected, and as an older-than-average student who’s been out of school for several years, she’s struggling with the demands of her new schedule. As for me, with the week I’ve had, I’m warming to the idea of learning how to disguise my physical aggression as intricate dancing. Jaslene, not so much. “Listen, I just want to show Max that I’m not as predictable as he thinks. One class. That’s it. Plus, you need a little loosening up. And it’s capoeira. How could you not be excited about that?”