The only problem is that where there is one food truck, there are usually many, and I am terrible at picking between them. I squint against the sun, Big Gulp from the corner convenience store already in hand, taking the trucks in again and trying to consult my stomach. Am I in the mood for a teriyaki bowl at Pimp My Rice? Do I desperately need some Waffle Love? Yesterday I had some amazing barbecue at theTrailer Pork Boys, which should probably count them out of the running just for variety’s sake, but that sauce was sooo good. I recommended it to Brendan earlier today, and he went right there and got a plate of brisket, barely bothering to look around.
Food choices are not a source of anxiety for him.
I glance back at the table where Brendan is sitting with his lunch date, a really pretty—and very tall—Latina girl I pointed out to him after our panel. He did his part, gathered his courage, went over and introduced himself, and asked her to join him for lunch. She was all for it—of course she was, he’s Brendan!—and the two of them are now chatting over their super-amazing barbecue plates.
I try not to notice how nice her smile is or how much she’s showing that off—she’s clearly having a great time. He doesn’t seem to be overly tense, from what I can tell. He’s definitely getting more comfortable with meeting new people, so that’s good.
Except, what if all this plan does is make him better at dating other women? What if the only reason he wanted to date me was because he was so comfortable with me, and if he becomes comfortable with other people—
No. I shut down my stupid brain, which probably should have thought about thisbeforewe set the plan into motion.Too late now. Besides, the concept is still solid. If we’re dating other people, we’re casual. And if we’re casual, then he doesn’t need to freak out about jumping into a serious relationship all at once.
This reminds me. I’m not just supposed to be picking out my lunch, I’m supposed to be finding my own lunch date. Ugh.
I take a slurp of my Big Gulp—a mix of grape soda and various colas this time, heavy on the grape—and scan around. I check out the guys at the back of the lines, where I could jump in and easily start a conversation, leading to a lunch invite.This isn’t exactly a problem for me. I may have had some rocky dating abilities in high school, but I’d like to think I came into my own in the years following. Guys tend to think I’m cute, and I’m generally able to tamp down the extreme spazziness of my natural personality, at least for a few minutes, so they think “She’s fun!” rather than “Is she on speed?”
So it’s not getting the date that’s the problem. It’s the fact that I’ve had no desire to be on a date with anyone but Brendan for well . . . about four months. And follow-through on things I have no desire to do has never been my strong point.
But I owe him. He’s sticking to the plan, so I need to as well.
I suss out my options.There’s a cute blond guy in aBreaking Badt-shirt waiting at PrettyThai For a White Guy—yum,Thai—and an even cuter black guy wearing what I think is aGame ofThronescostume at the end of the Burger She Wrote line.
I decide that between the two, I’m more in the mood forThai, and head that direction, trying to think of a goodBreaking Bad-related opening line—maybe something about wishing they had a Los Pollos Hermanos around here? But I stop short when I see Jason heading toward me across the courtyard, not looking particularly happy.
More like really, really unhappy.
“Hey Jason,” I say when he gets close enough. “Is something wrong with the rock climbing thing later?”
I’m kind of hoping that there is.The closer I am to this afternoon’s rock climbing shindig I stupidly agreed to, the more I remember how much I hate heights and how I have the arm strength of cooked ramen noodles.
“What is it about me that would give someone the idea I’m a player?” he asks, and my gut twists.
“Uh . . . what?” I’m not great at feigning innocence, or at least Brendan has told me so on numerous occasions, but Jason isn’t really paying that much attention to me, despite having sought me out.
“I asked your friend Emily out just now, and she said she didn’t think it would be a good idea.” Jason glowers down at his flip-flops. “She said she’s not really intoplayers.” He makes that last word sound like he’s describing a particularly disgusting body odor, which is probably how Emily said it.
“Um, okay,” I start. “Well, it’s probably just that she’s dating someone already and—”
He shakes his head. “She told me last night that guyTate isn’t her boyfriend.”
“What?” I feel a little betrayed on behalf of my cousin. I mean, I don’t thinkTate and her have had the commitment talk or anything, but she’s into him! And he’s into her!They are perfect for each other—I practically have my maid of honor speech (complete with mic drop) written for them! So why is she trying to encourage Jason?
Except clearly, she’s not, given that she turned him down.
He juts out his chin. “That’s what she said.That dude left the party soon after you did—I guess he had to send some demo or something? Anyway, she and I got to talking, and after the party we hung out for a couple hours. It was awesome.” He runs a hand through his spiky blond hair, somehow managing to make it spike even taller. “At least, I thought it was. But then I asked her out today and—aplayer! Why would she think that?”
I flinch, and not just because he’s talking really loudly again.
I have a pretty good idea why she would think that. But I’m a little afraid to tell him the direct truth. Maybe . . . anadjacenttruth would be okay.
“I mean, you are kind of a flirt. Like, with everyone.”
“So I’m friendly, and that makes me a player?” He glares at me. Coming from such a generally good-natured guy, Jason’s glare is scary. I take a little step back.
“No, not—” I pause. “Look, I mean, you do have a lot of girlfriends. It seems like every time I see you, you’re dating someone new. And with guys that go through a lot of girlfriends, well, there’s a tendency to think—”
“I’m not a player,” he says, back to glaring at his footwear like they have something to do with this. Granted, they aren’t great-looking flip-flops. “I’m usually the one who gets dumped.”
This last bit has a sadness to it, a vulnerability I’ve never heard from Jason.
