Ice To Meet You

Do it for the gram

Oh, how much I would love that Kent! Liam—he wants me to call him Liam. Something is fluttering in the pit of my stomach and I can't help but giggle. Is this what it feels like when your crush likes you back? 

"Not that you would know much about it," Inner bitch remarks and for this moment I do. I won't let her rain on my parade.

"So, tell me more about this Nate guy?" Ken—Liam inquires and the butterflies in my stomach are ferociously flapping their pretty purple wings. 

"He's just a guy I met in the lobby while waiting for you." I clarify. 

The scowling is back, and for the hundredth time today I wish I knew what he was thinking. He doesn't say anything and Marco serves us our food. The apricot iced tea is refreshing; I am glad I took his suggestions. 

"You have an article to write and you can't afford to screw this one up!" Inner voice cautions me and I can feel a headache forming. The left side of my head is getting heavier by the minute. I press three fingers on my temple.

"What's wrong?" Liam asks, concerned. 

I smile at him and mouth nothing. Maybe it is lack of water and sleep finally catching up with me.

"Mia, what's wrong?" he probes, his voice firm and loud this time. No! Get back to your purring. 

"My head hurts a little, I just need some food and water inside me."

"What did you eat for lunch?"

"I had a protein bar," I lie. I don't want another lecture from him and if it's not harming anyone, it's not really bad I guess. I cover my head with my hands, thankfully also hiding my eyes from him. Something tells me he can see straight through me at times and hopefully by covering my eyes he won't figure out my little white lie.

"Have some gnocchi Mia." He orders and since I am too tired to argue, I pick up my fork and put a mouthful in my mouth. It melts on my tongue.

Kent picks up his phone and is quickly typing something on it, "It's rude to text while eating," I tease him and he keeps the phone aside.

"How was your day?" I ask, hoping he will spill some beans about himself.

"Shouldn't I be asking you that?"

Why does he dodge every question I throw at him? "But since I asked first, shouldn't you answer me?" I fire back, two can play.

"Well, my day was the same old. Had meetings back to back in the morning, late lunch with a prospective client followed by golf with an old high school friend. Nothing too exciting, how about yourself?"

"My day was horrible and I don't want to talk about it," I don't bother looking at his face for a reaction and focus on chowing down the gnocchi.

Liam is back on his phone and I guess he just doesn't care. I unlock my phone and I have a missed call from mom. I should call her back once I am home. Wilson walks in the restaurant and approaches our table with a CVS bag that Liam takes. Liam takes out a bottle of Advil and opens it.

He stretches his palm so that the two tablets almost touch my lips. I lean in and my eyes collide with his. His lips are pressed together, eyebrows alert and his eyes—damn his eyes—they are drenched with an emotion I am not sure I can translate. He is looking—scratch that—he is observing me. I touch my lips to his palms and pick up the tablets from my mouth — such a simple yet intimate gesture. I lean back and take a sip of the iced tea to swallow them.

If I was doubtful before, I am almost sure now that he likes me. Why else would he go to the trouble of being this thoughtful?

"Thank you, Liam," I say, deeply touched by his gesture.

"So why was your first day horrible?" he probes and my tears are on a short leash. He really should be careful—this is delicate territory he is treading on.

"I suck at my job and my best friend and I aren't talking and my editor thinks that my writing is dog shit. I could go on but I think I've made my point."

"Come on. I am sure your writing isn't dog shit,"

"Those were literally her words, not mine." I am much kinder to myself.

And just like that, I can't help myself from chuckling, and the laughter he is trying to mask to preserve my feelings erupts from his lips too. Suddenly my day isn't as bad anymore.

"What was your article on?" he asks, his checks still flush.

"Its called 'I love you until I find someone better' and is all about monogamy becoming last season and dating apps ruining our love lives."

"I'd like to read that," he remarks and disappointment washes over me. I want him to say monogamy is not last season. I want him to tell me that he believes in love as I do.

"I'll send it to you once I am home, it's just not my best work."

"Why didn't you produce your best work on your first day?" He says, disappointed in me. How can he be such a critical prick?

"I don't know, it's not that easy."

"Don't you love writing?" he asks me the obvious.

"Of course, I do."

"Then why can't you write what your editor wants?"

"You don't understand, just let it go." I can't believe he is being this cold.

"Then explain it to me. You are hired to write, why can't you do that?" Rude

"Maybe I am not meant to be a writer and this was my wake-up call." Maybe I am meant to be a librarian or a panda hugger. They do have that as a job in China. I should move to China.

"Maybe you're not." He says and I know he's just a stuck up rich spoilt bastard lacking empathy and his words should mean nothing —except to me, they do. I blink back the tears welling in my eyes.

"The Award for Cry Baby of the year 2018 goes to Mia Harriet Dawson," Inner bitch announces and is holding a crying baby in a diaper award up to me. I sniff loudly to hold back my emotions.

"I just—I can't rationalize it... I know I can do better," I manage to utter, biting my lips to hold back my tears.

"Then do better instead of just throwing in the towel," he says and before I can do anything, I feel a tear slipping from my eyes onto my cheeks. I wipe the traitor away.

"Stop being a little bitch," Inner bitch scolds me and I just want to howl. I get up from the chair and rush to the bathroom.

I know I shouldn't and I haven't had enough today but I can't help it. Out of habit I put my fingers down my throat and throw up. The tears burning my checks won't stop until I punish myself for not being good enough. He is right, I should do better. I wipe my smuggled mascara running down my face, refresh my lipstick and fix my hair. One look at the mirror and I look slightly flushed—but the lighting is amazing!

I take my phone out and open the front camera. The white lighting is perfectly opposite to where I am standing and my cheekbones look chiseled, I smile brightly and take a selfie. I fix the contrast, add some warmth and caption the picture "Best first day ever", tagging the location to Substance magazine. This is my first post since graduation and posting a Facebook status is so last season. Now everyone knows I have an amazing life. 

Who cares what the reality is?