“Yes, you do,” Ro says, adding his two cents. “Remember Candice? The girl you met in your marketing class? You didn’t want to have coffee with her because of the way she curled the edges of her textbook.”
“That was in college,” I point out. “And it lowered the value when it came time to sell them.”
“No, he’s right,” Jake butts in. “You never called back Hayley’s friend a few years ago because you thought the way she texted with her index fingers was weird.”
“The one we ran into when we were in Vegas,” Ro explains when the confused look on my face translates into a lapse in my memory.
“Who texts with their index fingers when their thumbs work perfectly fine?” I throw back, placing the night when Hayley’s friend slyly asked if she could set her up with me, before turning to Hayley, saying, “No offense.”
“I barely knew her,” Hayley answers, shaking her head and saying, “But see? Commitment issues.”
“You also swore off Hinge after the nut mishap,” Ro adds. Hayley giggles by his side, no doubt remembering my own dating app fiasco when my date forgot to mention having a very serious nut allergy and ordered a walnut crunch salad, not realizing it had nuts when it very clearly lists them in the ingredients on the menu. Not to mention the word “walnut” in the actual name of the dish. I spent the evening in the emergency room before taking her home.
“I think that was an actual valid reason,” I tell them. I feel like I’m being ganged up on. Have they always had this opinion of me? A guy freshly in his thirties, wasting his prime dating years blowing off women for something as absurdly trivial as how they unwrap a straw wrapper or the fact that they don’t know the difference between “there,” “their,” and “they’re.” Although, just like the nut incident, I think that last one is completely valid.
And it dawns on me, like a bucket of cold water dumped over my head. I can’t think of a single thing about Grace I find offensive. Nothing. In fact, it’s the complete opposite. I find the way she dangles her drink from her thumb and middle finger when she’s growing a little loose and tipsy charming. I like that she holds her chopsticks at the far end, showing how it’s a skill she’s obviously had her whole life. And I’m actually obsessed with how, when she’s standing in one spot, her feet tilt to one side, avoiding her soles from fully touching the ground.
“So,” Ro reiterates. “Any prospects? Or did you meet someone who licks all their fingers when eating wings?”
A round of cackles surrounds me.
“Wait a minute,” Jake adds, cutting into the laughter. “When’s the last time you’ve been on a date period?”
I do some mental math, not really having thought about this question recently. Though if I count my night with Grace last week, I believe the number in days would dwindle down to single digits.
“It’s been, what? Two years since the nut allergy incident? Was that your last date? Has it been that long since you’ve gotten laid?” Ro’s questions layer on top of each other.
Jake whistles. “That’s one hell of a dry spell.”
“I bet that right arm of yours is extra strong.” Ro guffaws, slapping a hand on the table.
“It hasn’t been two years,” I argue boldly. All eyes face me, waiting for me to clarify. Has it been longer? Maybe more like three years? Or has it been something much shorter? Like a mere week? “I…had some drinks with a friend last week?—”
“So, was it a date?”
“You hooked up with a friend?”
“What’s wrong with her?”
More questions spill out of my friends in a symphony of curiosity and a pursuit for more answers. A part of me regrets saying anything. Not only because their persistence is near relentless, but also because this was meant to be a secret. A night between me and Grace. And now it’s spilling into my friends’ very nosy ears. Though I wouldn’t say I have some high ethical standard and believe the act of kissing and telling is for philandering womanizers, I want to keep that night to myself. It’s become this sacred keepsake I’ve been clutching onto, wanting to place it under a protective glass dome and display it somewhere in my apartment. And if someone were to ask whyit’s so special to me, I’d tell them with a far-off voice, “It reminds me of someone.”
“You don’t know her,” I explain, knowing it’ll do nothing to smother their interest.
“And?” Ro asks. “What does she do?”
“Like, for work?”
“No. A habit that you find repulsive.”
I pause, thinking about those adorable feet flexing and curling as if the ground beneath her was sizzling hot. And it slips out of me before I can even think about it. “Nothing.”
I feel their eyes moving, shifting across the table with silence and shock until Hayley gently asks, “Are you seeing her again?”
“No.” My answer is firm, leaving little room for possibility. I watch the hopeful smile on her face drop.
The surly, brusque tone of my voice must ring out louder than I intended because when I look at my friends, a mixture of confusion and pity look back at me. I brush off their concerned looks with a caustic smile, poking at a dollop of ketchup with a lone fry. Just as a swarm of servers gingerly walk a brightly lit chocolate cake in our direction.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
