Chapter 4: Porsche, Lipstick, and Plot Twists

I smiled politely and didn’t answer. I gave her the sort of noncommittal shrug guys use when they don’t want to brag but secretly hope you’ll notice.

She hurried over, acting like it was the most natural thing in the world: “It’s so hard to get an Uber here, you should give me a ride.”

She was already sliding toward the passenger side, not waiting for permission. I had to admire the confidence, if nothing else.

Before I could say anything, she even played coy: “A real gentleman would drive a lady home after dinner.” She batted her lashes, voice all Southern belle now.

Then she parked herself by the passenger door, arms folded, tapping her boot against the curb like she’d already made up her mind.

Uh… I couldn’t bring myself to tell her to get lost. It’s tough to be rude, even when you probably should be. Something about that Savannah charm—old habits die hard.

Fine, I’ll give her a ride. I popped the locks. She slid in and adjusted the seat, like she’d been in a Porsche a hundred times.

Once inside, her attitude did a complete 180—way more enthusiastic than at dinner. She started chatting about her favorite restaurants, suddenly full of ideas for our next date. The car must have had magical properties.

“You know, you’re way too blunt with girls. It’s really off-putting.” She giggled, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, as if teasing me would make up for the whole evening.

“But that’s good too. Guys who are all sweet talk on the first date are usually unreliable.” She winked, like she was letting me in on a secret.

Then her phone rang. She glanced at it and hung up. It rang again. She looked annoyed, clicked her tongue, and hung up again. She shot me a look, like I should feel sorry for her.

“Persistent suitor,” she muttered, rolling her eyes as if this happened every day.

I just replied with a flat “oh,” not interested in prying. I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel, staring at the traffic light.

At this point, I had no idea how wild the real identity of this so-called ‘persistent suitor’ would turn out to be. It was just another detail in a night full of surprises.

She kept talking: “Some guys, just because their family has a little money, get so arrogant. I really can’t stand it.” Her tone had this performative disgust, like she wanted me to know she was above all that—except she’d just spent dinner telling me money was everything.

I said, “Well, at least they meet your hard requirements.” I smiled just enough for her to notice the sarcasm.

She suddenly turned, gave my shoulder a playful punch, and said in a cutesy tone, “I’m not that shallow, okay? Actually, a house and car aren’t necessary. What matters most is the person. As long as he’s motivated, outstanding, and reliable, that’s more important than anything.”

She batted her eyes, voice syrupy sweet, like she was auditioning for The Bachelor.

I gave a dry laugh. Lady, that’s not what you said at the table. I glanced at her, thinking, You must have a script for every scenario.

I asked, “So if a promising guy doesn’t have a house or car, that’s fine?”

“Of course! As long as we work hard together, we’ll have those things eventually.” She said it with a straight face, like she’d just invented the concept of teamwork.

“I saw cat photos on your Instagram. You must be gentle and loving. I had a cat when I was little too. When can I come over and play with your cat?” She leaned closer, grinning, eyes gleaming like she’d just found her next TikTok filter.

“It’s not even nine yet, are you going home? Want to go somewhere else? We’re not far from Forsyth Park. You could park at River Street, or I could treat you to a movie.”

She rattled off options, practically planning our second and third date in one breath. “Where do you live? Would driving me home be out of your way? If we see a movie, will it be too late for you to get home?”

“You can’t refuse a girl, or I’ll be so sad~ I hardly ever take the initiative to ask a guy out. You should feel honored~”

She even added a little pout, for maximum effect.

Me: …

I stared at the dashboard, fighting the urge to laugh. I’d never seen anyone flip the script so fast.

As she talked, she rested her right hand on the car door, then reached into the storage compartment and pulled something out. Her nails were perfectly manicured, painted a pearly pink. She fished around, looking for some treasure.

She held it up—a lipstick. It was a deep red, MAC brand—definitely not mine.

She waved the lipstick at me, the cherry scent filling the car, eyes blazing with curiosity. “Why do you have women’s lipstick in your car?”

Her expression shifted from suspicion to excitement, eyes full of drama—like a wife catching her husband cheating. “Whose is it? Your girlfriend’s? Your ex’s? Or are you planning to give it to someone?”

She arched an eyebrow, waiting for me to squirm.

I looked at it calmly and said, “This car belongs to a friend. The lipstick’s probably his girlfriend’s.” I gestured to the passenger footwell, where there was a men’s gym bag with a name tag.

“What? This isn’t your car?” She looked at me like I’d just announced I was Batman.

“That’s right.”

She looked half-convinced, staring at me with eyes like searchlights, as if she could read my mind.

I pointed to the parking pass on the windshield. “My phone number ends with four 2s. Check if it matches.”

I figured it was the easiest way to prove I wasn’t hiding anything.

She went silent, then gave a cold laugh and started scrolling on her phone—completely different from the chatty person she’d been a minute ago.

The temperature in the car dropped about ten degrees. She swiped furiously, not saying a word.

I acted like nothing happened. “Seen any good movies lately?” I tried to lighten the mood, but she just glared at me over her phone.

She replied coldly, “It’d be too late after a movie. It’s only our first meeting. Not appropriate.”

Her tone was icy—back to business.

“Fair enough. How about a walk at Forsyth Park?” I figured maybe some fresh air would thaw the tension.

“No, there are too many tourists these days. I don’t want to squeeze with the crowd.”

She sounded bored now, like she’d already moved on to her next plan.

“Are you sure you don’t want to give me this honor?” I tried a playful grin, but she just rolled her eyes.

“Can you stop being so cringe?” She said it with a little sneer, like she’d never been accused of being annoying in her life.

“Then maybe next time I’ll invite you to my place to see my cat?” I couldn’t help poking the bear, just a little.

“I only liked cats as a kid. Don’t care for them now. They’re noisy and clingy—so annoying.” She wrinkled her nose, like the very thought offended her.

Noisy and annoying? I thought: the only one noisy and annoying here is you. But I didn’t say that. I just said, “You seem pretty straightforward. If we were to work out, and work hard together for three to five years…”

I trailed off, watching her reaction. It was like lighting a fuse.

“Wait, wait.” She cut me off, clearly annoyed. “What do you mean, ‘if we were to work out’ and ‘work hard together’? What are you talking about?”

She tossed her hair, exasperated, like I was making things complicated on purpose.

“Didn’t you just say you could struggle together with a promising guy?” I tried to sound genuine, but she wasn’t buying it.

She fiddled with her hair, suddenly irritable. Her nails clicked against her phone as she spoke.

“Dude, struggling together is for guys fresh out of college. You’re almost thirty. Do you really think it’s right to drag a girl’s youth along and make her suffer with you?” She looked at me like I was missing some crucial life lesson.

“I…” I started to answer, but she was on a roll now.

“What, you’re twenty-eight. Not young anymore. Don’t tell me you think you’re still a kid.” She jabbed her finger for emphasis.

“But you said house and car—”

I tried to remind her, but she cut me off.

“Enough! A house and car are super important! If a man’s thirty and still doesn’t have a house or car, doesn’t that say something?” Her voice was rising, like she was making a closing argument in court.

“But you said you’re not shallow—”

She got more worked up as she talked. Her cheeks flushed, hands waving for emphasis. It was like watching a courtroom drama.

“Of course I’m not shallow. Choosing someone successful and well-off isn’t shallow—it’s being responsible for my own future! I really don’t get why men have the nerve to criticize women for being materialistic or realistic. If women don’t want anything—no house, no engagement ring—you’re thrilled! Satisfied! Seriously, stingy men—no wonder you can’t get a wife!”

She shot me a look, daring me to contradict her.

“And don’t talk to me about girls who are willing to suffer with their men. What’s so great about that? If I were that guy, I’d be ashamed. Girls like that will regret it sooner or later!” She tapped her phone, as if searching for supporting evidence.

“My parents didn’t raise me to marry some loser and do charity! Like the saying goes, ‘If you’re broke, don’t drag others down.’ If you don’t have money, don’t drag women down with you. We don’t owe you anything, and we’ve never eaten at your family’s table!”

She finished with a dramatic toss of her hair, eyes flashing.