Page 19 of Redamancy (Fated Fixation #2)

I’ve already got bare-minimum expectations for most first dates anyway, but this dinner party is setting a record low.

“You’ve hardly touched your soup, Poppy.” Seated directly across from me, Janie eyes my nearly untouched bowl. “You don't like it?”

“I won’t be offended if you don’t,” adds her husband, Harrison. “I’ve been told pea soup isn’t much of a thing here in the States.” Unlike Janie, I don’t hear any judgment in his voice—though it could just be his strong British accent that’s masking it.

“Oh, it’s not that,” I lie. “It’s very good. Just more filling than anticipated.” My stomach protests the thought, but I force down a spoonful just to placate Tom’s friends.

Of all the things I could’ve been served tonight, it had to be split pea soup.

To be fair, Harrison’s split pea soup is leagues better than the bland, mushy split pea soup that Lionswood used to have—but still. Even just the smell threatens to elicit my gag reflex.

I’d kill for a dollar-slice of pizza right about now.

“Good,” Janie nods. “I was worried you were one of those high-maintenance, gluten-free girls afraid to ingest carbs or something. That’d totally be Tom’s type.”

Specifically, I’d kill Janie for that slice.

I don’t care to defend myself against that quip—if she wants to assume I’m some uppity Manhattanite because I thrift Anthropologie and don’t love pea soup—then fine.

But her comment does make me curious.

“How do you guys all know each other?” I ask. “Did you meet when Tom moved to the city?”

Translation: what sort of weird dynamic is at play here? Protective childhood friends? Ex-throuple? Estranged cousins?

The last one wouldn’t entirely surprise me. If I squinted from a distance, I could probably mistake Harrison’s blonde hair, blue eyes, and square jaw for Tom’s.

“Actually,” Tom answers. “Before that. I went to college with Janie.We lived on the same floor.”

“And then Tom just had to follow me to New York,” she teases, smiling smugly. “Couldn’t live without me.”

He rolls his eyes. “Yeah, right.”

“Just like you couldn’t live without blue Gatorade sophomore year,” she adds, and they both burst out laughing.

From my left, Harrison leans over to whisper, “Don’t worry. You’ll get used to all the inside jokes.”

Will I?

My phone vibrates in my pocket, and I discreetly check the screen.

What are you doing tonight?

It’s almost embarrassing—the way my entire mood lifts immediately. I feel like one of Pavlov’s dogs, salivating at even just surface-level, platonic small talk with Adrian.

And why does he want to know what I’m doing?

Is it curiosity for the sake of conversation or is he hoping I’ve got nothing going on so that he can—

Nope.

Not going there.

Boundaries, Poppy.

You created them for a reason.

Tonight is supposed to be about Tom, not you-know-who.

I pocket my phone before I can give into the urge to reply and barely catch the tail-end of Tom’s story—not that he notices. “So, that’s why I was so obsessed with blue Gatorade in college,” he finishes.

My phone buzzes again.

Don’t look at it.

You don’t need to see what he said.

I smile tightly. “Hilarious.”

But what if that wasn’t him?

Maybe it’s LuAnne.

Maybe she’s experiencing some sort of crisis that requires my immediate attention.

I reach into my pocket.

Every second I sit here, pretending to choke down soup and laugh at stories I don’t understand could be another moment she needs—

“Did you go to college, Poppy?” Janie asks, reaching for her red wine.

My hand falls away from my pocket. “I went to Pratt.”

“That’s amazing,” Tom says.

Janie snickers.

“What?” I ask, a little more bluntly than intended—and she holds her hands up in surrender.

“Oh, I wasn’t laughing at you,” she says coyly.

Sure you weren’t.

“It’s just,” she continues. “When Tom told me you were an artist, I didn’t realize you were an actual artist. I thought he meant you were, like, an Etsy artist selling stickers or something.”

My eye twitches.

She’s just baiting you.

She’s clearly got some weird, twisted thing for Tom that probably goes all the way back to their college days, and now, she’s just trying to stake her claim.

If I wanted to spend the night dealing with a prickly bitch, I could’ve just stayed home and cuddled with Toby.

At least he’s incapable of insulting me in the English language.

“Speaking of artists,” Janie leans toward Tom, eyes sparkling. “Remember that class you modeled for in college? When you…”

Cue another long, drawn-out flashback that leaves Tom and Janie in fits of laughter.

I’m not even annoyed this time, not when I’m able to use the opportunity to check my phone.

The only new notification is from LuAnne (not in crisis, thankfully) checking in to ask how the date is going.

It’s going terrible. Can you please call me in about thirty seconds and fake an emergency?

“I’m going to grab another bottle of wine,” Janie announces. “In the meantime, if everyone’s finished—” She shoots a weighted glance at my full bowl of soup. “—why don’t you set up board games in the living room, Harry?”

Me: Please. I’m being starved and forced into board games.

While I wait for her response, I help Tom clear the table.

It’s just the two of us, and he turns an apologetic smile on me as soon as his friends are out of earshot.

“I hope you don’t take any of Janie’s comments to heart,” Tom says quietly, a handful of dishes in hand. “She comes off as…abrasive sometimes.”

My phone vibrates, and I glance down, my heart sinking when I read LuAnne's response.

Oh no! I’m at dinner with Joe’s parents right now…can you give me like thirty minutes and I’ll try to slip out?

“She’s just protective of me, I suppose,” he explains. “She’s seen me get taken advantage of in the past, and now, she likes to vet the people I date early on.”

Or she’s tragically in love with you, and trying to scare off every girl who comes within spitting distance of you, I want to say.

In fact, there’s a lot I’d like to say, but I’m still stuck on the fact that I’ve got another thirty minutes of gritting my teeth.

As if on cue, Harrison hollers from the living room: “You lot up for Catan?”

“Sounds good!” Tom calls back.

Thirty minutes of a still-empty stomach, Janie’s snide remarks, AND a round of Catan?

For a moment, I debate faking a heart attack—even if it means getting wheeled out of here via ambulance and ending up with a hefty medical bill.

Who knows? Maybe I’d get to see Adrian, I think—but then an idea emerges.

Am I desperate enough to do this?

Before I can talk myself out of it, I pull out my phone and shoot off one last text.

Guess I am that desperate.

And I’m jittery with nerves and uncertainty as I hand off the last set of dishes to Tom, who’s still discussing Janie’s so-called “protectiveness.”

“I just hope you understand,” he says. “That her concern comes from a good place.”

I doubt that.

“I understand,” I say, and I do. I understand.

I understand that Tom, above all else, is the sort of guy that doesn’t just see the best in others—he refuses to see anything but. The sort of guy who offers unconditional kindness and infinite second chances, no matter how many times you stomp over him.

And the sort of guy I’d ruin.

“I understand,” I repeat, and Tom smiles.

“I knew you would.” His blue eyes shine with a level of sincerity that’s uncomfortable. “I know we don’t know each other very well, but I can just tell you’re a good person, Poppy. You’ve got a kind heart.”

I almost laugh, but my ringtone cuts through the awkwardness of the moment.

Shit. This is really happening.

“Hold on,” I tell Tom. My stomach flip-flops. “My roommate is calling.” I pick up the phone—but it’s not LuAnne’s voice that greets me on the other end.

“I just received your text,” Adrian says. “Are you alright? What’s going on?” The worry in his voice shouldn’t warm my chest—but it does.

“LuAnne?” I school my features into what I hope is genuine-looking concern. “What’s going on? You sound like you’re crying.”

There’s a beat of silence on his end, and then Adrian asks, “Are you using this phone call to fake an emergency?” I can’t tell whether he’s amused or offended by the realization. “Where are you?”

“No, no, I’m not busy,” I say. “I’m just at a party with friends. You can talk to me. You sound really upset.”

“You don’t sound like you’re at a party,” Adrian muses. “There’s not enough background noise.”

Janie reappears with a bottle of wine as I let out a strangled gasp. “What do you mean, Joe broke up with you? Like right now?”

“No music either,” he continues. “Must be a very small get-together.” I can faintly hear the hospital intercom over the line.

Is he at work?

He’s calling me in the middle of a shift?

I specified in the text that he didn’t need to bother if he was at the hospital.

“Okay—woah, just slow down, LuAnne,” I say, shooting Tom a stressed glance. His expression mirrors mine, and he even mouths: is she okay?

“It must not be someone you know very well either,” Adrian says. “Otherwise, you wouldn’t need to pull this stunt.”

“Don’t do anything rash,” I plead as I hurriedly throw on my coat and Tom hands me my purse. “I’m on my way, okay?”

“You’re on a date,” Adrian concludes, and he no longer sounds amused. “And a very poor one, it seems.”

I swallow. “I’ll see you soon, okay?”

I hang up the phone before he can draw any more conclusions, but the flattening of his voice—and what that might mean—stays with me the entire walk home.