“A lot of people think they’re friends with me—and of course, socializing is a big part of my job—but I can count my actual friends on one hand. Which, honestly, is just fine with me. I’d rather have four quarters than a hundred pennies.”
I smile to myself. I like that.
“What?” he asks, seeing my face.
“Just sounds like something my Gran would say.”
He grows serious. “Just what every man wants to hear: that he reminds you of your grandmother.”
I giggle, and his eyes gleam. I think he likes making me laugh. “So, now that I’ve shared my most damaging childhood memories, shall I show you to the door?” He’s joking, but there’s real vulnerability in his voice.
I reach out and give his arm a comforting squeeze—though let’s face it, fondling his bicep is more of a treat for me. I want to pet him like one of those touch-and-feel board books I read to my nieces. “Nah. What’s a little family drama? Anyway, this confession is nothing compared to the guy who told me he’d been collecting his toenail clippings since college.”
He throws his head back and laughs. “No way. I refuse to believe it.”
“Okay fine, it was part of a story I did about worst app dates, but it really did happen to a coworker of mine.”
He’s laughing harder now, his voice husky and deep, and something about the combination of the music, the wine, and this absurdly attractive man whose lap I’m practically sitting in—not to mention his unabashed, palpable interest in me—has me loosening up, dropping my guard, and relaxing into the rare, heady feeling of a date that’s going well. Really well.
“Quick, tell me something awkwardly personal about you so I feel less pathetic.” He stretches his arms over his head, and I find my eyes lingering over his midsection, hoping to catch a fleeting glimpse of his abs. I get another whiff of his man-scent and I have to fight the urge to inch closer to him, to press my nose to his neck and bask in his body wash. I can only hope the smell will permanently brand itself on my sense-memory to enjoy long after I leave tonight.
“Awkwardly personal, hmm.” I rack my brain, trying to ignore the gnawing attraction building in my stomach. “I don’t really have any deep, dark family secrets, though there is something . . . but I can’t possibly tell you, because it would definitely scare off any sane man.”
He perks up instantly. “Try me.”
I’m absolutely going to regret this, but here goes. “So you’ve heard the saying, Always a bridesmaid, never a bride?” He nods, waiting for the punch line. “Well, pretty sure whoever coined that phrase had me in mind. Guess how many weddings I’ve been a part of in the last few years.”
“Four?” he guesses.
“Try seven.”
“Seven?” He winces. “Ouch.”
I sock him in the shoulder. “You’re not supposed to make me feel worse!”
He laughs, blocking my blows with a throw pillow. “I was just kidding. Anyway, who cares? It’s not like you’ve been married seven times. You’re not Ross.”
I shoot him a look. “Come on. Seven weddings in the last few years, and I’m no closer to one myself. What does that say about me?”
He blinks. “That you have a lot of friends?”
I smile faintly. “Or that other women are marriage-worthy, and I’m not.”
It’s a shocking thing to say aloud—especially since it’s one of those deep-seated fears I only allow myself to brood over when I’m several glasses of wine deep during that time of the month. What’s wrong with me? Will I be alone forever? And the one that scares me the most: Am I unlovable?
I’m too proud to voice these feelings to my sister or all the other smug marrieds in my life, so to bare my soul like this to Jack of all people is humbling, to say the least. But I think a larger part of me wants to hear how Mr. Perfect, I have an answer for everything will respond to this confession—especially since he has unique insight into the collective male psyche most others don’t.
“You don’t actually believe that, do you?” He’s incredulous.
“I don’t know. I never used to, but when you hit your fifth wedding, you start to wonder.”
He nods slowly, thinking that over. Strangely, I appreciate that he doesn’t immediately try to placate me with some knee-jerk rebuttal or forced compliment. If there’s one thing I’m tired of hearing, it’s: Your day will come! （A close runner-up: It’ll happen when you least expect it! I’ve been not expecting it for a decade now, thankyouverymuch Aunt Carol.）
“What about me?” he asks. “I’m not married, is there something wrong with me?”
“You’re what, four years older than me? Thirty-two?” He nods. “Then probably, yeah.”
He snorts.
“I’m kidding. Anyway, it’s different for men. You not being married is a choice, and no one’s going to give you a hard time about it. Women don’t have that luxury. I have to hear, ‘Why don’t you have a boyfriend? Are you being too picky? You’re not getting any younger! But what about kids?’ from every distant relative or random acquaintance of my parents’ until my ears bleed. And you know what the worst part is? I ask myself those same questions.”
He raises an eyebrow. “You think I’ve never been asked those questions?”
“Oh please, it’s hardly the same. If a man isn’t married, it’s because he’s ‘focusing on his career,’？” I say, fingers clenched in angry air quotes. “If a woman isn’t married, it’s because no one’s picked her. And don’t even get me started on how women are called ‘spinsters’ and ‘old maids’ while men get sexy nicknames like ‘distinguished’ and ‘silver foxes.’ I did a whole story on this.”
“I know, I read it.”
That pulls me up short. “You did?”
“Of course. I read everything of yours I could find.” He starts reciting from memory. “？‘When they graduate, men are told they have their whole lives ahead of them, while women are told their clock is ticking.’ That was a great line.”
I stare at him, mouth agape. Jack’s read my work? I suppose I shouldn’t be that surprised; I certainly investigated him, so it stands to reason he’d do the same. Still, the idea of him scrolling through years of my writing （and apparently, committing some to memory?!） is both flattering and mortifying. My words are like a window into my soul; despite us never having kissed, he may as well have seen me naked.
“Wow. Uh, thank you,” I stammer. I think of that line from When Harry Met Sally: ‘Nobody has ever quoted me back to me before.’ I’m totally thrown. “Anyway, I got off track there. What was I . . . ?”
He looks amused. “Weddings, I think?” he offers innocently, swilling the tumbler so the ice clinks against the crystal. He’s clearly enjoying that he’s flustered me, the deep blue of his eyes awash with humor. They remind me of dark water; a pool at night. I want to dive into them and never come up for air.
“Weddings,” I echo, trancelike, then shake myself. “I’m sorry, no, not weddings. I mean, it’s not just about weddings.” I tear my eyes away from his; it’s like they’re hypnotizing me. “I just feel like this stage of life isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. We’re constantly being told that our twenties should be the best time of our lives, but if that’s the case, then I’m definitely doing something wrong.”