Page 23 of Say Yes to the Nemesis

What I don’t love is how she assumes we’re a perfect match. Like being attractive is all it takes.

“We’re both driven,” she says, reaching across the table. “People have told me we’d make gorgeous babies.”

“You have such a magnetic aura,” she continues, blinking like she’s in a shampoo commercial. “Are you an Aries?”

I stare at her. “No.”

She giggles like I told a joke. I didn’t.

It’s like she’s reading from a Pinterest board labeled “Marriage Goals.” I don’t even know her middle name. But sure. Let’s build a fantasy life together based on jawlines and astrological compatibility.

I smile politely and squeeze her hand. Inside, I’m gritting my teeth.

Gorgeous babies. Right.

I glance at the nearest camera, the red light blinking steadily. It’s angled low, probably trying to catch my smile. I give them one.

She thinks this is fate. I think we’re two strangers having a heavily-produced dinner.

She thinks I’m the guy who eats up this kind of attention. The cocky player who’ll take her bait and flash a smirk. I’m not. Not anymore.

At least, I don’t want to be. That’s the old Ryan Haart.

When the entrées arrive, she shifts the conversation to what she wants in a husband. A traditional leader. Someone who makes the decisions. A man who “knows who he is.”

I want someone who’ll stand beside me. On the ice, in the fire, wherever we end up.

She says it with pride. I nod along, but my stomach tenses.

I can be decisive. That’s not the issue. But I don’t see marriage as a hierarchy. I don’t want to be anyone’s king. I want a partner.

I sip my water and glance again toward the crew. One of the producers is watching us like it’s a soap opera. This whole thing is weird. Nothing about this is normal.

I feel like a prop in a romance movie where someone forgot to write a soul for my character. I’m sitting across from a woman who’s already planning our wedding hashtags. All I can think about is how badly I want to be somewhere else.

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Wren standing off to the side, arms crossed, watching this circus unfold. No fake giggle. No tossed hair. Just a raised eyebrow and a mouth that’s twitching like she’s trying not to laugh. I’d rather spend ten hours with her silence than ten minutes of this.

I clear my throat and return my attention to Trinity. “Have you ever been to a drag show?”

She sputters. Actually sputters. Her eyes widen. “A… drag show?”

It’s a test. A quiet one. A toe over the line of who I really am. And her reaction, a tight smile, fingers gripping the cross, says more than anything she doesn’t say out loud.

“Yeah,” I say. “Some of my close friends are gay. A few perform. We go to shows sometimes. They’re fun.”

Trinity blinks hard, then gives me a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “That’s… nice. Uh, no. Can’t say I’ve ever been.”

Her voice is higher now. Her fingers toy with the cross around her neck. She shifts in her seat like she’s trying not to squirm.

I glance toward the boom mic hovering above us, wondering if they’re loving this.

I don’t press. She’s trying to be polite, but it’s obvious. She doesn’t get it. Maybe doesn’t want to.

We move on to dessert, but the mood has changed. She keeps talking, but her words don’t land. We’ve both gone stiff. The cameras are still rolling, but it feels like we’re just killing time.

After a long silence, she says, “I had a really nice time tonight.”

She smiles, hesitant now. “Would you kiss me?”