I attempt to duck out of the way but end up getting nudged again, leading me to giggle like a contestant onThe Bachelor.
“You still have the same laugh.”
“You’re still a huge butthead.”
“Good one.”
“Do you want my help or not?”
He folds his hands in his lap, flashing me a contrite smile.
I roll my eyes again and turn away from him. “Okay. What do you think is the number one thing women are looking for in a man?”
“Money?”
I start to rise because no demonstration of personal growth is worth having to listen to my ex make misogynistic jokes.
He grabs my arm, laughing at his own misstep. “I’m kidding. Good god, you know I’m kidding. Because that’s the number one thing women are looking for.”
“Immaturity?”
“A sense of humor.” He grins, his eyes twinkling like he’s genuinely enjoying this.
“You’re incorrigible.” And fuck if I’m not also somewhat enjoying this. It’s like that whole letting-go-of-my-anger thing actually worked, though somehow this feels even more dangerous.
“But I’m right, right?”
“Yes. Sense of humor is the number one thing women are looking for, and so despite my moral qualms with lying on your dating profile, we’ll put that first.”
“ ‘Silly and snarky sense of humor’? You always did love alliteration.”
“You always did love making me do your work for you.”
“Hey! That’s not fair. I wrote your chemistry final paper for you.” He tries to give me another nudge, but I successfully duck this one.
“Only because I wrote your essay on the French Revolution.”
“That was only so you’d have an excuse to watch yourLes MisVHS on repeat.”
“ ‘I may have trouble admitting when I’m wrong, but what man doesn’t?’ ” I narrate out loud as I type the words onto his dating profile.
“Rude.”
“You know what? Why don’t you walk down to the coffee shop at the end of the block and get me a hazelnut latte, and while you’re gone and not being a distraction, I will write something that is truthful and not totally unflattering.”
“Not totally unflattering... can’t wait to see the kinds of dates that brings me.” But he doesn’t argue, pushing backhis chair and striding out of the office without a backward glance.
Once he’s left the building, I turn my full attention to the dating profile. And my fingers hover over the keys; I’m unsure of what to write. Letting go of my anger is one thing, but helping him win this competition is another. I could use this moment as payback—he pretty much admitted he set me up with Brian to mess with me—but my thirst for revenge seems to have been slaked. I decide to stop thinking and just write.
My name is Seth and I’m a thirty-year-old writer who just moved to Los Angeles. I know right off the bat that makes me a total cliché, but I already have a very successful career and I relocated because I am looking to settle down in one place, and with one woman. The people who know me best would probably tell you I have a great sense of humor, am always willing to try something new, and am loyal to the people closest to me. My ex-girlfriends would probably tell you that I’m a good cook but suck at doing dishes, I’ll always let you control the playlist during road trips, and I pride myself on doing a good job of taking care of you. Not like in a sugar-daddy way, but in a make-you-soup-when-you’re-sick way. I don’t know if I believe in “the one,” but if she’s out there, I would love to find her.
I reread the words I’ve written, satisfied I’ve crafted a profile that will appeal to the average Los Angeles woman. I read it again and catch all the truths about Seth, all the little things I know about him that most others don’t. And it starts to do funny things to my insides. They get all warm and squishy. Because what I wrote isn’t even a stretch. Sethisfunny and loyal and adventurous, and he truly does the best job of taking care of people.
A cup of coffee appears before me just as a sheen of tears springs up in my eyes. I grab my latte with a quick muttered thanks and farewell, and bolt from the desk before I do something foolish.
I run—almost literally—into Tessa as I’m barreling my way out the front door of our building.
“Hey!” Her hands grasp on to my forearms, steadying us both while somehow managing to not spill my coffee in the process.
