"No, I don't think it is malicious. From what I understand, once the word had been uttered, she has no choice whether to grant it or not," he explained. "I think that the men making the requests have foolishly thought that their female partner would be the pregnant one. But if they want one so damn much..." he shrugged. Why was he spending so much time talking about Isabel? He needed to change the subject.
"Oh, you didn't really. You were talking about college, and I went and made it dark," he admitted. He knew that he was doing that a lot more lately; it was probably just the place his head was at and it would pass again. He did appreciate her trying, though he wasn't sure he wanted this Abi to know exactly how bad it had been. Or still was. Not on a second meeting. It had taken him a hell of a long time to open up about the war to his own Abi, and although she was the same person (he was sure of it), it didn't mean that he felt completely comfortable cutting himself open to bleed all over her like that. She had already loved him before; maybe it had to be that way around.
"You don't look like a child," he laughed, although of course he would have to say that. It didn't look too good on him if he was busy seducing women who looked like children. "Very fresh-faced and youthful, but not childlike," he insisted, saving it in case she thought he was saying she looked old instead. Still, he didn't ask her age; you weren't meant to, were you? She wasn't a child. It didn't really matter her age beyond that.
Ernest met her gaze, feeling strangely enchanted by her. "I'd like that. I've missed having other writers around," he admitted. "There are a couple of painters who are fine to talk to, but someone to talk with and share ideas and doubts? Hard to beat," he told her. Fuck, there he was, pretending he was actually a writer. She'd find him out. She'd be embarrassed for him. Would she lie to save offending him and actually pity him? "You have to promise to be brutally honest with me. No pandering to the name," he told her firmly. He'd met far too many people who just loved every piece of drivel he'd ever presented them. It wasn't helpful, it was damaging.
Any seriousness was quickly washed away by her next conversation piece. He might've played it cool, like he was just the kind of guy who was always screwing around with Hollywood stars, but it was another Hemingway's life. "What the hell is the deal with Ava Gardner?!" he asked, laughing away at the very thought of it. "I swear, I haven't even met the woman, but I found a present from her through the door and I was intrigued- and now this? I'm not saying I wouldn't - I almost definitely would - but it is uh... news to me," he explained. He'd heard so many names dropped to him now, he would've wondered what he was missing out on if it hadn't been for Abi. "This really isn't fair, though. You know so many of my dirty secrets, and I know none of yours."
A lie. He knew plenty of hers, but he did have to keep reminding himself that he had to start from scratch. She might interpret his prior knowledge as disinterest when he didn't ask so many questions, even if he already suspected or knew her answers. Still, what he found surprising was that he was learning some new things. There was something quite exciting about it all.
He frowned a little as she spoke about being cheated on. Ah, yes. Her list off asshole exes, some worse than others. He remembered with a dark delight how he had knocked the fuck out of Dwight in Boston. That was apparently twice now he'd punched down other men for Abi. "And what act is that?" he asked her.
"Is that all it takes to keep you happy? And here I thought the sober reality of a food court might dampen your spirits," he smiled affectionately. It was going okay, though, wasn't it? He hadn't horribly offended her yet, she seemed happy and comfortable in his company? It was about as good as he could hope for for a second meeting. It was going to take time, but at least he knew that she was worth every bit of time and effort he would put into this.