“Ah, well, thanks.” Despite my sarcasm, I feel my face heat again and curse myself for it. Three blushes in one evening? It has to be a record. One that I hope to never beat. “Honestly, the answer isn’t all that interesting. I’m just not looking for anything permanent. I’ve been told by Sarah that I’m independent to a fault.”
What I don’tsay is that I grew up watching my mom bring home loser after loser, knowing damn well we’d all be better off without them. It only took her boyfriends a few weeks into dating before they started acting like they had some sort of authority over her—our—life. They usually started off small, like my mom’s favourite brand of coffee being switched out for their preference. Then it slowly escalated. Our soap-opera evening marathons becamewell, sweetie, the game is on. Why don’t you go finish up your homework in your room?Orno, we’re not having tacos tonight. Insert-boyfriend's-name-here doesn’t like them.Then, eventually, they’d leave, and we’d reset. Sarah, her mom, and I would enjoy the brief interim before Mom’s next man came through, and then we’d look after Mom when that inevitably went to shit again.Because of this, I learned quickly that in order to preserve the life I wanted, I had to avoid inviting a man in.
But, like most hopeless-romantic idiots, I forgot my self-appointed golden rule in my early twenties and moved in with my boyfriend Jack—who wantedeverythinghis way and didn’t care how he had to act to have it. That, of course, also ended terribly. I’ve been picking up the pieces since. My self-esteem and life plans are still, mostly, in shambles.
“What about you?” I ask. “In search of a wife?”
“No.” Bo laughs out, his eyes flicking up to the ceiling momentarily. “I am not.”
“Well, that’s certainly… compatible.” I chew my bottom lip, hoping he catches my not-so-subtle suggestion.
He catches it, all right, and stares at me a littletoolong. To the point where I start to feel my heartbeat pulsating in my neck. I wanted this response, sure, but for some reason, from Bo, it feels a little overwhelming. Perhaps it’s the way his eyes search my face like he’s trying to place me. Like we’ve met before. Or maybe as if he can’t believe we haven’t.
Whatever thislookis, I need it to stop. It’s causing too much blood to rush to my head—making me warm and flustered and dizzy.
“I like your pirate’s leg,” I say in a truly horrific attempt to take the attention off me. “I-I meant—your costume. Not just your leg, obviously. The whole thing,” I say, floundering.
“Oh, well, good. I was worried you only wanted me for my leg for a second,” he teases.
I choose to ignore his flippant use of the wordswanted meand take a sharp turn away from my blunder. “Has that happened to you yet?” I ask, reaching for my drink, praying it can cool me off. “I got a doozy of a message last week on Instagram. Reese24 told me his dick would look huge in mybaby-hand.”
“Oh my god.” Bo’s face distorts as he laughs in horror.
“Yep.”
“That’s so many layers of fucked-up.”
“Truly.”
“But…” Bo lifts two palms, mimicking a tilting scale.
“No,” I say, punctuated by a shocked laugh. “No. Don’t you dare.”
“Imean,” his eyes turn teasing as he shrugs, “he’s right. It probably would.”
“Oh my god.”
“It would do a great deal for the ego. Reese24 may be onto something.”
“Awful,” I sputter through a laugh. “You’re both awful.” I curl my lips up to my nose like the room stinks as Bo sits back comfortably, his arm once again resting behind me.
We continue to make small talk for enough time that Sarah’s playlist has now replayed 'Monster Mash' twice. Bo laughs at my theory around the song, unlike witch woman, and eventually decides he’ll need to do his own research with a thoughtful analysis of the lyrics once he gets home. The party is starting to die down when our conversation does too. A slow fade to contented quiet and a third round of drinks fetched by me.
But, oddly enough, our lull in conversation isn’t uncomfortable. I’ve been on plenty of dates where the banter stops flowing and it’s easier to either call it quits or take things back to someone’s apartment than it is to wait for the next quippy exchange to roll in. But tonight, there’s no shortage of topics and no fear of some forced, humourless conversation.
These quiet reprieves feel more like intermissions. As if we’re performing for each other. Taking turns being the entertainment and the entertained. Keeping each other laughing. Keeping each other guessing. It’sfun, and part of me wishes we had more time before Sarah and Caleb decide to kick everyone out for the night. ButmaybeI could convince him to stay a little longer.
Given everything I’ve learned about Bo so far, I’ll have to take the lead. He’s so completely unaware of his own charm it’s comical. He’s shy, almost. I could see him asking for my number, but I doubt he’d be bold enough to ask me back to his place. Which, I’ve decided, is what I want to do.
“Is this a wig?”
I don’t notice until I feel the back of Bo’s finger brush my cheek, but he’s holding a strand of my hair between his thumb and pointer finger, twiddling it mindlessly.
“No, that’s all me.” I gulp as his thumb grazes the underside of my chin.
He continues twisting my hair through his fingers, curling it around the backs of his knuckles as if it’s a snake he’s charmed. I fight the urge to crawl into his lap and purr.
“Sorry,” he whispers, wetting his lips. I notice that he doesn’t let go, however.
