Chapter 17: Romance in Reverse

Jules coughed, a smug smirk playing on his lips. He was clearly relishing this awkward situation, the attention of two attractive men fueling his already inflated ego. I, on the other hand, rolled my eyes so dramatically I was surprised they didn’t get stuck in the back of my head. This was turning into a ridiculous farce.

"Oh, him? Just a friend. We’re actually neighbors," Jules said, attempting a casual shrug that didn’t quite land.

"That’s correct. We’re neighbors. But not really friends," I corrected, taking another sip of my iced tea, the sweetness a welcome contrast to the bitter taste of this whole encounter. Jules spluttered, clearly not appreciating my clarification.

"Really? And you’re bringing your neighbor here? Are you shitting me, Jules?" the newcomer didn’t try to hide his annoyance.

I decided to tune them out, focusing instead on the rapidly disappearing plates of barbeque. Free food, after all, was free food. I bit leisurely into a piece of perfectly marinated short rib, letting the duo hash out their drama. A quick glance around the restaurant revealed that we’d attracted a small audience. Some diners were openly staring, amused by the unfolding entertainment. Others were more discreet, surreptitiously filming the scene on their phones.

Just as I was reaching for another slice of kimchi, a new voice joined the fray. "Maurice! My dear, here you are. I was waiting for you."

An older gentleman, impeccably dressed and radiating an aura of old wealth, approached our table. He glanced at Maurice, then at Jules, and finally at me, his expression a mixture of confusion and disapproval. "What’s going on here?" he inquired, his tone polite but firm.

And just like that, another layer of this ridiculous onion was peeled back. Apparently, Jules had been actively pursuing Maurice on Instagram, showering him with compliments and promises of lavish dates. Maurice, it seemed, had been under the impression that he was Jules’ only romantic interest. But here we were, a table for four, with Jules caught red-handed, like a toddler with his hand in the cookie jar. And to add another twist to this already convoluted drama, it appeared that Maurice himself wasn’t entirely innocent. He was, in fact, on a date with the older gentleman, even while entertaining Jules’ advances.

I shook my head, a small smile playing on my lips. This was better than any reality TV show. I resumed my focus on the barbeque, letting the trio settle their…differences. The free meal had just gotten a whole lot more interesting. This was definitely an experience worth savoring.

After the initial shock and subsequent argument, which involved a lot of finger-pointing, raised voices, and accusations of betrayal, Maurice stormed off with the older gentleman. Jules, left alone with me, made a half-hearted attempt to salvage the date.

Jules’ eyes practically bulged out of his head when the waiter presented the bill. He shot a nervous glance at me, and I simply offered him an expectant smile. He swallowed hard and handed his credit card over, his hand trembling slightly. Even for a crypto-millionaire, this lunch was probably pushing the boundaries of a casual date expense.

When the waiter returned with his card, Jules attempted a recovery. "That was quite a lunch," he said, his voice a little strained. "Did you enjoy it?" He looked at me expectantly, clearly hoping for some positive feedback, some sign that his extravagant spending had impressed me.

"Free food is really nice," I replied with a shrug. "Thank you. Are you driving me back, or should I take a taxi?" I wasn’t trying to be rude, just…efficient. The date, or whatever this was, was clearly over.

Jules, sensing my complete lack of reciprocation, resigned himself to playing chauffeur. We left the restaurant, the silence in the car a stark contrast to Jules’ earlier boisterousness. I could practically feel the waves of annoyance radiating off him. He’d been publicly dumped by Maurice, and now I, his consolation prize, had effectively rejected him as well. Poor Jules. He really should work on his approach.

As we drove back towards our gated community, Jules’ driving became noticeably more erratic. He was probably still fuming about Maurice, and my disinterest hadn’t helped matters. He sped through yellow lights, tailgated slower cars, and generally drove like he was auditioning for a Fast and Furious sequel.

At an intersection, his frustration boiled over. A motorcycle, laden with sacks of rice, was waiting to make a turn. Jules, instead of waiting patiently, laid on his horn, an angry blast that echoed through the quiet suburban streets. I winced, pressing my hands over my ears.

And then…thud! One of the 50kg sacks of rice, apparently not secured properly, tumbled off the motorcycle and landed squarely on the hood of Jules’ Lamborghini, leaving a sizeable dent. Jules’ eyes widened in horror, his face turning an alarming shade of purple. He slammed on the horn again, a long, continuous blast, while sputtering a string of curses aimed at the motorcyclist, who probably couldn’t even hear him over the roar of his own engine.

I watched the whole scene unfold with a mixture of amusement and pity. Jules’ day was clearly not going as planned. First Maurice, now this. It was almost comical, like watching a cartoon villain get his comeuppance. Karma, I supposed, had a way of balancing the scales. I resisted the urge to pat his shoulder and offer a sympathetic "there, there."

The motorcyclist, after the dramatic thud of the rice sack against Jules’ precious Lamborghini, leisurely dismounted and surveyed the scene. He then, with surprising ease, hefted the 50kg sack off the car and re-secured it to his motorcycle. He sauntered over to Jules’ window and knocked, the sound muffled by the still-blaring horn.

My eyes widened. The motorcyclist’s helmet, black with a cute panda design, looked eerily familiar. It reminded me of the one I’d gifted Stefan years ago. A wave of dread washed over me. No…it couldn’t be…

Jules, still sputtering curses, angrily rolled down his window. The motorcyclist removed his helmet, and my jaw dropped. "Ehe. Sorry, Jules," Stefan said, flashing a sheepish smile. "Sorry about your hood. I think it has a dent." He gestured vaguely at the crumpled metal with a shrug.

Jules stopped mid-curse, his face a mask of stunned disbelief. He glanced at me, his eyes wide, and I could feel my own cheeks flushing under his gaze. I narrowed my eyes at him, daring him to say anything. He coughed, clearly flustered. "I-it’s okay," he stammered. "It’s fine. It can be repaired…" He tried to downplay the damage, but the tremor in his voice betrayed his true feelings. The repair bill for that dent was probably going to be astronomical.

Then, Stefan’s gaze landed on me. "Hey, Sacha!" he chirped, his earlier sheepishness replaced by a cheerful grin. He looked back at Jules, his brow furrowing slightly. "Oh, where are you guys going?" he asked casually.

Jules deflated like a punctured balloon, the memory of our disastrous "date" clearly fresh in his mind. I coughed, trying to break the awkward silence. "Stefan," I asked, my voice laced with curiosity, "what are you doing…with the sacks of rice?"

"Just a delivery, Sash," he replied with a shrug. I stared at the three 50kg sacks strapped precariously to his small scooter, my mind reeling. This was just another one of Stefan’s random odd jobs, his latest foray into the gig economy. I knew he’d been trying out food delivery services, but this…this was something else entirely.

The earlier near-miss flashed through my mind, the image of Jules’ Lamborghini almost colliding with Stefan’s scooter made my blood run cold. "Stefan," I said, my voice laced with worry, "be very careful, okay? Jules and I are returning home from lunch. You take care."

"Got it, Sacha. You two drive home safe," Stefan replied, flashing me a reassuring smile. He then turned to Jules, his expression suddenly serious. "Hey, bro, you should drive safely as well. Sacha’s with you." He gave Jules a firm pat on the shoulder before returning to his scooter.

Jules, who’d been unusually quiet, just nodded, his face pale. The realization that he’d almost hit my brother had clearly sobered him up. We watched as Stefan drove off, his small scooter struggling under the weight of the three enormous rice sacks. I couldn’t help but feel a surge of protectiveness towards my younger brother, despite the fact that he was significantly larger than me. He might be strong and independent, but he was still my little brother, and I wanted him to be safe.

As we drove home, the silence in the car was thick with unspoken tension. Jules’ earlier bravado had completely evaporated, replaced by a quiet contemplation. I could practically see the gears turning in his head as he processed the events of the day. The disastrous date, the public rejection by Maurice, the near-miss with my brother, and the dented hood of his precious Lamborghini. It had been a rough day for Jules, a series of unfortunate events that had effectively knocked him off his pedestal of nouveau riche arrogance.

When we finally pulled into our driveway, I couldn’t resist a parting shot. "Maybe next time," I said, my voice dripping with playful sarcasm, "you’ll think twice before honking at a motorcycle carrying 150 kilograms of rice." I winked at him and stepped out of the car, leaving him to contemplate the wreckage of his day.