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Our fingertips brush in the exchange, and I’m reminded of my interaction with the college kid this morning. “My credit card isn’t working.”
Collin pulls his hand away, his eyes downcast. “I’ll call the bank and find out why.”
“Okay.” What else am I going to say to him? I think you’re lying? I… wouldn’t say that because I fear this man in many ways. I don’t entirely understand the fear either. They say you pick your battles, and with him, I pick them carefully. He’s not abusive, physically or emotionally, just… quick-tempered. And older doesn’t always equal wisdom. But it doesn’t stop the artist in me, who will always find people with the A-type personality intimidating because they’re not WTF-ing their way through life like me.
Clearing his throat, he loosens his tie. “I’ll be late tonight.”
“Why?
“Meeting.” He tosses two hundred-dollar bills on the counter.
“What’s that for?” At least he has money. And I know what I’m doing for dinner. Thai food, and he can’t complain. Who hates Thai food? Nobody that I’m friends with.
“You need money, right? I won’t be home for dinner. Get you and Tatum something.” His eyes drift to my easel, curiously examining my painting, but I know where his focus lands, and it’s not on my work. The Starbucks cup I’ve been nursing and trying to make last longer than necessary.
“You said your card wasn’t working.”
“It wasn’t.” Our eyes meet, and this is where I know the conversation might get dicey. Remember narcissist?
“How’d you get coffee then?” he questions, sliding his wallet into the pocket of his suit.
“The kid behind me in line bought it.”
Collin’s features harden. It’s a switch that’s been flipped when I tell him someone bought the coffee for me. He turns to stone. “You can’t be serious.”
I’ll pause here. If you’re thinking he’s jealous, that has nothing to do with it. I could kiss a man in front of him and I’m not sure he’d care. Okay, yes, he’d care, but him thinking I took a handout is far more degrading to him than me flirting. I’m certainly not going to offer up the fact that yes, I did flirt with the college kid today, but the anger swooshing in my head like water holds that fun fact at bay.
“It’s not that big of a deal.” I pick up the paintbrush in my hand. “He offered, and I didn’t want to be rude.”
“I’m sure,” he grunts, stepping back. “I’ll see you tonight.”
He leaves as abruptly as he entered my shop. Why is it that men can totally ruin your day with one conversation? As my granny Gina used to tell me: Marriage between a husband and wife is psychological. One is psycho and the other is logical.
I’m not pointing, because that’s rude, but you and I both know who the psycho is here.