Dumping Billy by Olivia Goldsmith Page B

Elliot! He is not,” Kate protested. “And keep your voice down.”
    “Come on, Kate. Wake up and smell the primitive peoples. He’s dull, he lacks humor, and aside from his haircut, I don’t see anything superior about him,” Elliot said.
    You
would
like that haircut, Kate thought. “
You
come on, Elliot,” she whispered. “You never like any of my boyfriends.”
    “Neither do you,” Elliot retorted. “Not since Steven. And this one is not only boring, he’s also self-involved, pompous,
and
a homophobe.”
    “He is not!” Kate exclaimed. “You blame everything on that.”
    “Kate, the guy didn’t address a single word to either of us through the whole meal.”
    “That doesn’t make him a homophobe. Maybe he’s just shy. Or doesn’t like you personally,” she added. “It could happen.” She put the wine goblets—one of them clean—on the counter.
    “Doubtful. And he’s probably an alcoholic. That’s why he doesn’t drink. Anyway, coming here to dinner is like meeting your family,” Elliot explained as he rinsed a plate. “He should at least pretend to like us, since we’re in loco parentis.”
    “Well, loco, anyway,” Kate agreed. Elliot made a face. She opened the dishwasher and started to put in the china.
    “Oh, no.” Elliot sighed. “Not the Havilland. It’s a hand-wash job. Brice wants gold leaf, Brice washes it.” He rinsed his hands. “We better get back in there. At least the coffee ought to help get things moving. Would you fill the creamer?”
    Kate nodded and opened the refrigerator. “Hey, Elliot, I’ve told you before. It isn’t easy to find a good, interesting, educated stable man who doesn’t want to date a supermodel.”
    “You may be right,” Elliot agreed. “I certainly don’t think you’ll find him in the Sub-Zero. But you could take out the profiteroles.”
    “Very funny.” Kate pulled out a quart of milk and a pint of half-and-half and placed them on the counter. “I admit you didn’t see him at his best. Trust me. Michael is much better one-on-one.”
    “I bet.” Elliot smirked.
    Kate ignored his innuendo. “No. Honestly. Evidence. He can be funny. And he’s really smart. He got his doctorate at twenty-one, was teaching at Barnard when he was twenty-four, and is considering his postdoc. I think he’s going to get tenure at Columbia.”
    “I didn’t ask for his curriculum vitae,” Elliot snapped as he popped the chocolate sauce for the profiteroles into the microwave to heat. “He’s just dull. Your father was an alcoholic and you never knew what to expect when he came home. Your mother died before you hit puberty. I know you want a responsible male, someone you can depend on. But this guy isn’t just stable, he’s inert. Where’s the magic between you? And he’s not nearly good enough for you. Don’t let your snobbishness over academic achievement blind you.”
    “I won’t,” she assured him, but a nagging voice at the back of her mind wondered about that. Despite all her professional training and the analysis she herself had been required to undergo, she still sometimes felt that much of what she did was a reaction to the desperate childhood she’d had.
    Elliot shrugged, turned around quickly in order to pick up the tray of coffee cups, and knocked over Kate’s purse, which had been sitting on the counter.
    “There goes my cell phone,” Kate said.
    “Is it the Havilland?” Brice called from the living room.
    “No. It’s the Melmac,” Elliot yelled. “He’s obsessed with the damn stuff,” he told her.
    Then he knelt to pick up Kate’s handbag and all the objects that had scattered over the floor. “I’m so sorry. I think I broke your makeup mirror.”
    “Uh-oh. It was a magnifying one. So do I have fourteen years of bad luck, or just seven years of more intense bad luck?”
    “Stop it, Kate. I’m a statistician, a mathematician, not a superstitious bumpkin.”
    “But you talk about magic . . .”
    “Not Harry