After the kiss, we posed for a couple more shots with his arm around me.
The photographers kept asking about the engagement ring. I held up my hand and apologized. “Getting sized,” I said. “I have fat fingers.”
They seemed to accept this response, and, after a few more pictures, they ambled away, dispersing in all directions.
Dalton kept his arm around me and steered me down the street. “You probably shouldn’t have said fat fingers.”
“Are you worried they’ll make fun of my fat fingers? They’ve said much worse.”
“Some of them were taking video. I should get you an appointment with a media advisor. It’s fine to say self-deprecating things, but never insult yourself.”
“Fat is an adjective, not an insult.”
He was quiet for a moment, then said, “You’re right. I’m sorry. But the world doesn’t see it that way.”
“Who gives a f**k what the world thinks?” We crossed the street with the light.
Still with his arm around me, but not looking me in the eyes, Dalton said, “People in the public eye care what the world thinks. They have to.”
“Oh, right.” I chewed on my lip and thought everything through as we walked up a hill, back to where the scooter was parked. “I may not give a f**k what the world thinks about my fat fingers, but I should make an effort to present myself in a positive way, right? Like, even if I feel down, I should keep smiling so other chubby girls can dream of marrying a handsome, famous actor.”
“Famous actors who are former p**n stars.”
“Come on, baby. You weren’t a p**n star. You were a p**n nobody.”
He stopped walking abruptly and turned to me, his green eyes bright and darting around warily before focusing on me.
“You truly have a gift for speaking the truth, whether you know it or not. You’re right. I was a p**n nobody. I was a total nobody until I was invited to read for Drake Cheshire. I don’t even know how they got a hold of my number.”
“Fate, I guess. Like when you ran into my bookstore that day.”
He winced and pretended to be interested in the hand-carved wooden toys in the shop window behind me.
“Confession time,” he said. “I knew you worked there. I saw you admiring the flowers outside another store the day before, and I asked the guy working there about you.”
“I don’t understand. You ran in that day because Brooke Summer and her camera crew were chasing you.”
“Brooke only spotted me because I’d walked up and down that street three times, trying to get up the nerve to go in.”
I shook my head. “I don’t believe you. Stop f**king around with my reality. I want to trust you, I do, but you’re setting off my bullshit detector.”
“You don’t believe me that I saw you and fell in love at first sight?”
I pressed my lips together to stop the “no” from flying out.
His chest rose with a deep breath, and he gazed off into the distance. “Peaches, if you don’t believe it, the press never will.”
“What the hell?” I pushed him back, my palms striking his chest hard.
“What? You can say whatever you want, but I can’t? You’re supposed to be helping my cause, not making a scene over f**king orchids, like some spoiled bitch on a Real Housewives show.”
“I think I liked you better when you were spouting all the corny lines from your scripts. The things you actually come up with yourself betray your stupidity.”
His eyebrow quirked up to match the corner of his smirking mouth. “I liked you better when you were on your knees.”
I narrowed my eyes at him. “Where’s Vern? I want to go home.”
“Let’s take the scooter back to the hotel.”
“Fuck the scooter!”
“I knew you didn’t like the scooter. Why didn’t you just say so back at the hotel instead of being all tight-lipped and saying the scooter was fine?”
“I didn’t want to be difficult!” I yelled.
“This truly is a spectacular effort you’re making to not be difficult!”
“It’s not easy being this easygoing!”
He started waving his hands excitedly, still yelling, “Thanks a lot for your valiant efforts to be easygoing!”
“Your shirt is stupid and full of holes! Why do you take so long to get dressed only to pick a stupid shirt with holes?”
“This shirt cost two hundred dollars! And I’m not stupid!”
I turned, looking around for something to throw. Another bucket of dog water sat a few steps away.
Just as I was reaching for the white bucket, Dalton shoulder-checked me. “Oh, no you don’t,” he said, grabbing for the bucket first.
I tried to take the bucket from him, and succeeded only in dousing myself with the water, soaking my skirt.
The empty bucket clattered to the sidewalk.
Dalton slowly backed away. “You did that to yourself,” he said.
I tried my best to shoot exploding laser beams from my eyes at him, but found myself lacking in superpowers.
“You take the stupid scooter back,” I spat out. “Call Vern and get him to pick me up here.” I pointed to the coffee shop on the corner.
Dalton put his hands in his pockets, calmer now and hunching his shoulders. He didn’t say he was sorry, but he did look sorry.
“You’re sure?” he asked. “We’ve still got a couple hours to sightsee.”
“I’m sure.” I turned around and started walking to the coffee shop, grumbling about how I wasn’t sure, not about Vern picking me up, not about marrying Dalton, and not about anything.
I walked to the cafe without looking back.
My jean skirt had taken the brunt of the aqua assault, so I visited the restroom inside the cafe and slipped it off and into my purse. I removed my belt and smoothed out my blue tunic to cover my butt. Clad in the thin gray leggings, I was showing a little more thigh than usual, but shedding a layer felt liberating.
I walked out of the bathroom unsure what had happened and what I was going to do next.
The coffee smelled good.
I ordered a mocha at the counter, and when I turned around, I realized getting my drink in a mug was a mistake, because every table was taken.
A dark haired, older man waved to me, catching my eye. He beckoned for me to join him at his table, so I did. He explained, in broken English, that he found the residents of San Francisco so friendly and welcoming.