Misleading the Choir

Four.

I was beginning to panic.
I had no idea where we were going for dinner, but I wasn’t comfortable being too fancy. I’d pulled on a pair of ripped skinny jeans around an hour ago, but I still had no clue what shirt I was going to wear. I’d been in and out of my closet, running around the house in my bra while doing my hair and make-up. All I really wanted was to throw on a band shirt and call it a day. Unless we were going to a basic pizza parlour or fast food joint, I doubted it would be appropriate. I wished I’d heard more than ‘dinner’ from him. In fact, I hadn’t heard a thing since he left this morning.
I groaned as the doorbell rang, half way in my closet and still no closer to finding a shirt. I threw on a black vest, running to the door to greet him.
“Hey,” he grinned, making me pause as my heart began to race. He looked good. He was wearing a pair of tight black jeans, a Clash shirt on under his leather jacket and his hair styled in that messy way intended to make you think he’d just rolled out of bed. I wouldn’t be human if I didn’t appreciate it.
“Come in,” I smiled. “I’m nearly ready, I swear.” I opened the door wider to allow him inside.
“You look great already,” he chuckled. “What else is there to do?”
“I couldn’t pick a shirt,” I admitted sheepishly. “Just give me five minutes. You’ve basically just okayed my first choice with what you’re wearing. Feel free to sit wherever, I won’t be long.”
I second guessed myself as I pulled my God Save the Queen shirt over my head, not sure if it made me look like I was trying too hard, before deciding I didn’t care. This was supposed to be business, after all. I let out a sigh as I looked myself over in the mirror one last time. I’d kept my glasses tonight, forgoing the contacts for the attempt to look casual, but I at least looked like I’d made an effort.
“Are you the kind that gets really sensitive about height, or are you okay with me wearing heels?” I asked him as I found him in the living room, flicking through the book I’d left on my coffee table. “I feel like I’m way too casual.”
“I don’t mind,” he told me, putting the book down. “I feel way more insecure about your reading habits than your height, trust me.” I snorted softly, but opted to throw on a pair of low Converse instead of the heels I’d planned. If he got to wear sneakers, so did I.
“Just because War and Peace is on display doesn’t mean I’m reading it.”
“No, but the dogeared pages half way through tell me you are.” I smiled sheepishly again, not knowing where to start with my classic literature obsession.
“I like classic literature, okay? Leave me alone.” He chuckled lightly as I begin to feel my cheeks burning. I’d been reading one classic novel or another since high school, loving the social commentaries and satires. I didn’t, however, like to rub it in peoples’ faces. Somehow it made me come across the snob, or at least a little pretentious, and it wasn’t what I intended. I just liked what I liked.
“I’m into Poe, I can’t criticise,” he assured me. I held back my scoff at his comparing Tolstoy to Poe, knowing that I wouldn’t get away from that without coming across pretentious. Okay, so I could be a snob, but the literature wasn’t the cause of it. That was all my own character flaw. I was a pre-Elizabeth Mr. Darcy. I was definitely glad I hadn’t said that one aloud. “Are you ready?”
I nodded, showing him out and grabbing my purse and phone as we passed by them next to the door. I noted a couple of text messages on my lock screen, seeing Ashley’s name but not opening them. They were ‘hints and tips’ for tonight, but I could hardly open them now.
I couldn’t think of a damn word to say as Billie and I sat down in his car, so the silence overtook us, the sole reason I could hear Give ‘Em Enough Rope playing from the speakers as he turned the vehicle on.
I had decidedly not told Alan about tonight, swearing Ashley to secrecy too. It’s not like I had no intention of telling Alan at all and losing my job over this, simply that there was no point telling him tonight because I wasn’t planning on broaching the subject with Billie. If I told Alan, he would immediately have been on my case to ask him about it. I wasn’t going to get anything that way. My plan for tonight was simple: get to know him. I was going to be a typical girl on a typical first date, or rather typical me on a first date. All my problems went away if he didn’t like me tonight, but he was attractive and he seemed sweet, so I wasn’t inclined to chase him away.
And, so, I switched off. My work brain shut down and I simply relaxed in my seat.
“Do you know you mouth along to songs?” He chuckled, about halfway through Tommy Gun as we stopped at a red light. “You’ve been doing it since you sat down.”
“I don’t sing,” I admitted sheepishly, the one shy trait I couldn’t shake. “But I like music, and I like words, so my mouth moves without me noticing.” I tried to shrug it off as no big deal, but I could feel a flush if embarrassment running through me. No one had ever mentioned that particular quirk to me before.
“You’re gonna have to learn to sing around me,” he chuckled, beginning to move forward once more.
“I think you’re the person I least want to sing in front of. My friends sing like a pack of strangled cats and I don’t sing in front of them, so...”
“So, I’m intimidating?” I watched a small crease form between his brows, obviously unhappy with the thought. I would have loved to contradict him.
“It’s not like you’re some drunk in a karaoke bar. But that’s all that’s intimidating about you. My reading taste is obviously far superior to yours and I’m pretty sure I can drink you under the table.” His frown lessened and I felt myself beginning to smile. I was glad I’d chosen the right response. It felt good.
“I’m half tempted to forget what I had planned and have an Indiana Jones style drinking contest.”
“You'd need to feed me first,” I laughed. “I had breakfast at 6am and haven’t eaten since.” He glanced away from the road for a moment to shoot me a look of concern and disapproval and I cringed. If I’d forgotten that the man had kids, that look alone would remind me. “Not on purpose,” I assured him. “I drank an inordinate amount of coffee while I was working and by the time I was done, it was nearly 3 and I figured I’d wait until now. So, please, tell me what you have planned is at least a little food related.”
“I promised dinner,” he chuckled. “And I always make good on my promises.”
“At least one of us does,” I joked. He smiled at me briefly before turning back to the road. I settled a little more comfortably into our silence this time, though made sure my lips remained still. We pulled up outside a small Italian place a handful of minutes later and my heart both surged and sank. Being half Italian, I loved authentic Italian food, but my grandmother had spoiled me with handmade pasta and her incredible sauces. Nothing quite compared.
Billie quickly left the car as I grabbed my purse and was quickly on hand to help me out of the car as I opened the door. He grinned at me and I felt my heart skip half a beat as he looked so uncertain of himself while still so willing to help. I allowed him to help me out and he continued on with his gentlemanly ways, shutting my door for me and holding the door to the restaurant open for me. I tried to push down my smile, but I kept catching his grin and found my lips were unwilling to cooperate.
It was busy inside the restaurant and the smells that hit me from the kitchen made me almost groan with anticipation. I took in the cliché chequered tablecloths with some apprehension, but allowed myself to smile regardless as the hostess led us to a small table in the middle of the room. Billie pulled my chair out for me and I felt my smile widening again at his actions, despite my best efforts to contain it. I didn’t want to like this guy but he was being damn sweet and I couldn’t help it.
“I can’t tell if you’re hating this or not,” he chuckled within moments of the hostess leaving, while I continued to look around me. “I figured Italian was a pretty neutral way to go instead of like, Thai or some shit.”
“Sorry,” I replied, realising my face had been just as much unimpressed by certain things as it had been impressed by Billie himself. “Italian is perfect. My favourite, actually.” He grinned at me again and I ducked my head to look at the menu, desperate not to show him the way he made me react just by god damn smiling. I was a badass, I lived alone and I liked it that way. Just because he was sweet didn’t mean I wasn’t going to be me; just because he was attractive didn’t mean I wasn’t here for work.
“Hey, my name’s Marco,” a new voice said as I fought with the grin on my face behind my menu, “and I’ll be your waiter. Can I get you started with some drinks?”
“Um, I’ll just have a coke,” I said, glancing up from my menu to look at him.
Enzo?” He gasped as he looked at me too. I groaned playfully as I recognised him, realising that we definitely weren’t far from my neighbourhood if he was here.
“Ugh, better add some vodka in,” I joked with him, making him roll his eyes at me as I put my menu down. I saw Billie raise his eyebrows at me and cringed inwardly, aware that I was supposed to be on a date here. “Sorry, Billie, this is an old friend of mine, Marco. Marco, this is Billie.”
“Sorry, man, what can I get you? Just drinks or are you ready to order your food?” He asked, attempting to bounce back into his work persona. I hid a snort as a cough at the lame attempt, but put my menu down anyway.
“What are you doing here?” I asked, after allowing Billie to place his order, having been ready to order food too. I had known what I wanted the moment I’d opened the menu, so it made little difference to me.
“This is my dad’s place,” he beamed at me.
“No shit!” I gasped. “Honestly though, if I order the Genovese, does your dad skimp on the wine?” He laughed loudly at my words, shaking his head.
“Not if I tell him Little Enzo is out front and actually legal this time.” He scribbled my order down below Billie’s.
“Mangia merde e morte, Marco,” I replied, handing him our menus. He bowed out, mockingly, and I couldn’t help but laugh. Billie cocked an eyebrow at me and I bit my lip, trying to suppress my continued laughter. “We went to school together,” I told him.
“Okay, but the Italian?” He asked. I shrugged.
“Nonna taught me,” I replied, taking a quick sip from the glass of water that was on my side of the table. “Not that particular phrase, that was all Marco. But she was Sicilian, so she spoke Italian in the house and refused to reply in English, even when I was being a brat and pretending not to understand.”
“You’re Italian?”
“Half,” I shrugged. “Nonni moved here just before dad was born, but my mom was first generation Swedish. Hence my pale complexion.” I joked with him, pointing out one of the few traits my mother had managed to sneak into my genes over dad’s aggressive DNA.
“So, do you know Swedish too?”
“God, no. I didn’t really know my mom’s parents. I lived with nonna from the age of about eight.” He frowned at my last words, but I ignored the implied question. It was a heavy topic for a first date. I know parents and childhoods were some of the more frequented topics of conversation, but I tried to avoid anything relating to my life prior to the age of 13.
“Good,” he grinned, taking the hint as I remained silent. “You were beginning to get far too intimidating, but now I know you only speak two languages, I think we’re okay.”
“Well, a girl doesn’t want to come off intimidating on a first date, does she?” I laughed back at him, well aware that I was the least intimidating person at the table.
“I kinda like the intimidating girls,” he shrugged, shooting me a lopsided grin. I felt myself biting my lip to suppress my return grin, doing my best to ignore the small fluttering in my stomach. I mean, I knew it was the damn man’s job to be good with words, but this was too much.
“So, what is this, some sort of checklist I’m failing at miserably or just a gut feeling?”
“Hey, you’re acing the checklist,” he joked back at me.
“So, what about you, the ever-talented Billie Joe Armstrong?” I replied, desperate to get away from talk of myself and my life. I had basically told him that discussion of my family life was off-limits and so the next topic was most decidedly going to be work unless I steered this elsewhere.
“Ugh, shit,” he groaned. “Don’t say it like that.”
“Stop acting like I’m amazing because I speak Italian then. Millions of people do,” I replied. “Then I’ll fake like you’re not way more talented than me.” He chuckled briefly, shaking his head as he realised I had laid on the ‘ever talented’ bullshit to get him to back off me.
“Deal,” he conceded. “But I’m not great about talking about myself. There’s not much the press don’t pick up on.”
“I’ve seen what the press says about you,” I replied, ignoring the fact that I was the press. “There’s got to be more than the bullshit about, I don’t know, drinking and—” I paused, unsure if I wanted to utter the next ‘d’ word that sprang to mind.
“The divorce?” He offered helpfully, not looking too put-out by the discussion.
“Yeah,” I admitted, cringing a little as I realised I had broached a subject I didn’t want to broach tonight. I’d love to be able to walk into work tomorrow and tell Alan I had absolutely no chance to discuss the matter tonight. “Sorry, I, uh, didn’t mean to bring it up. I hear it’s quite, uh, fresh.”
“Don’t worry about it,” he shrugged, as a new waiter appeared with our drinks. I didn’t know if Marco was deliberately avoiding me or not, but I appreciated that I didn’t have to interrupt my conversation with Billie to make small talk with Marco. “It’s been a long time coming and I know everyone is flipping out about it, but it’s not as much of a big deal as they make out.”
I let silence settle over us briefly as I took a sip of my drink. I could tell by his tone that he was okay, on some level, about what had happened, but he wasn’t by any means close to being open about it. He was a lot more private than we all liked to pretend famous people were. Face to face with him, aside from my inability to sing around him, I forgot he was a big deal in himself, never mind the events in his life. He was a guy I’d met not even a week ago in Starbucks, easy going and not too full of himself and more than happy to talk classic literature with me.
“So, aside from all the reportable shit, what else do you get up to, or like, or whatever? I don’t know, I don’t do this shit often.” I shook my head as he raised his eyebrows at me. I felt another smile fighting its way through my embarrassment and he returned it, though less unsure of himself.
“It’s been over a decade since I’ve done this, so don’t pull that on me.”
“Please, like you’re not fucking swimming in potential dates since last week,” I chuckled back.
“Just holding back the tide of girls desperate for a piece of me, but you’re still first in line,” he joked in return. “But, uh, I’m not really all that fun outside of music. I drink a little too much and I hang out with my kids and the band. That’s about it.”
“You’ve got me beat,” I shrugged. “I work, read shit published before my nonna was born and occasionally score tickets to places I shouldn’t be, where I drink too much.”
“I feel like this is a game, where I say something self-deprecating and you try and beat me,” he chuckled. “I’m sure you have more going on than that.”
“Nope,” I told him, shaking my head to reiterate. “I meet up with friends once a month, usually, but other than that I don’t think I missed anything. I’m too busy chasing down people who don’t want to talk to me.”
“And I’m busy running away from people I don’t wanna talk to,” he replied, shooting me yet another grin. I rolled my eyes, laughing all the same.
“I guess you are.”
♠ ♠ ♠
I know I'm the worst, especially considering I know exactly what's going to happen in this, but I think that may make this harder.
I'm working on not writing so slowly.