The Revenge Artist - Philip Siegel Page 0,28

heart sinks at the response.

Desmond = epic fail

I zoom downstairs to the kitchen and bust out the Oreos, Twizzlers, and melba toast—chocolatey, tarty, or savory all at Diane’s disposal. I scramble around, getting the setup perfect.

When she gets home, Diane shuffles past me, moving into the living room with zombie-like dragged-out determination. Wrinkles crease her dress, and what was beautiful before now looks tragic. She squats down, eye level with the liquor cabinet, and pulls out an unopened bottle of vodka that’s half as old as me. She takes out two glasses and pushes my snack suggestions to the side. “Do a shot with me,” she says.

“Sure.”

She pours very generous shots, and I manage to gag down the drink.

“So it was bad?”

“It was terrible. Wait, no,” she says, pouring another round for us. “Beyond terrible. There isn’t a word to describe this date. Just imagine your head slamming through a windshield.”

I get out the orange juice. I’ve reached my limit with straight vodka. Besides, I’m just here for moral support (and Twizzlers!).

“I thought I was talking to a nice, charming, smart law student online. No, my dream guy was actually a snotty know-it-all who always had to have the last word. You would think he owned the museum by the way he talked. He was charming as long as I agreed with everything he said. If not, then I’d get cross-examined until, ‘Fine, I guess you’re right.’ Whenever I tried to give my opinion on a piece, he would just roll his eyes. And he just seemed annoyed by anything I had to say.” Diane digs into the Oreos, shoving two in her mouth at the same time and washing them down with the rest of her drink.

“Maybe he’s a big art fan?”

“He didn’t know what he was talking about half the time. He said one painting was a Kandinsky because of the patterns, but then I corrected him and said it was a Cézanne. He claimed it was a quote-unquote ‘cute guess.’ I showed him the plaque, where it said Cézanne in big, bright letters.”

“What did he say?”

“He just shrugged and walked over to the next piece.” Diane puts down the Oreos on-deck. She’s so worked up she can’t even eat. “On his profile, he said he loved sweets, so I suggested this cupcake place, but he proceeded to tell me how cupcakes are over.”

“Cupcakes will never be over!”

“That’s what I said! And then he rolled his eyes. Again. Like they were hamster wheels. He was so condescending. He kept calling my job ‘cute.’ It’s not a baby gazelle.”

“Maybe he was just having a bad day.”

Diane doesn’t laugh it off. There’s still more carnage she needs to examine in this pileup. “The crazy thing is, at the end, he said he wanted to see me again. I told him no, politely. I said I didn’t see a connection, but he was a great guy. I lied through my teeth. And…” She stares at the table, rubbing her forehead.

“Diane?”

“And he said, ‘You don’t have to be such a bitch. Now I see why you got left at the altar.’”

I immediately picture myself bashing in Desmond’s head with a baseball bat. Rage boils inside me, and I need to punch something. I hurl out a string of expletives to best describe my reaction.

“How did he know? I never told him. The tristate area is so incestuous.” Diane rests her head on the table, and I run my nails down her scalp, which I know she loves.

Frustration rattles my bones, and I find that I’m angrier about how wrong this all turned out than my sister’s ruined night. She can get over a bad date, but this throws all dating logic out the window.

“This makes no sense,” I say. “You guys had nearly perfect scores online.”

“Apparently numbers lie.” Diane downs my shot.

“I’m so sorry.” I hug her, which is so cliché and final-moments-of-a-sitcom cheesy, but it’s one of those times. I know how hard it is to get past your past, although what Diane went through is a hundred times worse.

She squirms as the vodka burns her throat. She strums her fingers, so much weighing on her mind. “So, remember when I was getting ready, and I told you how my boss saw a promotion for me in the near future?”

I nod yes.

“Well, they want to promote me on to the Butterworth account, which is based out of their Nashville office.”

“Nashville?”

Diane pours herself another shot. I take three Oreos, which measure up