He sits back and drapes his arm across the back of the couch. “Explain.”
“First of all, I’m constantly stressed about money. I work all the time, but I’m barely keeping my head above water financially. When you just got up to refill your drink, I had to stop myself from digging in your couch cushions for loose change.”
He chuckles.
“And then there’s the work. When I first started at Siren, it was exciting and everything felt important. And don’t get me wrong, I’m proud of what I do. But does any of it matter? People read it, then click away and forget it. It’s not changing anyone’s life. Now, writing a book, that matters. That lasts. But I can’t seem to actually start.
“And the weddings thing just adds insult to injury. All my single friends are dropping like flies, and once they are married, they fall off the face of the earth. They’re either hanging out with other couples, or they get pregnant and only seem to have time for their mom friends.”
To illustrate my point, I stand and head over to his credenza, where I’ve set my purse. While I rummage through it, I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the oversized round mirror: eyes alight and vibrant, skin flushed, cheeks tinted with the type of natural glow makeup brands would kill to replicate. I’m a vintage photograph come to life. I’m Reese Witherspoon in Pleasantville, slowly colorizing in a black-and-white world.
I finally find what I’m looking for—my keys—and hold them aloft. “You see this banana key chain?”
He nods, looking both amused and bemused about where this is all going.
“My friends got it for me at the end of a girls’ trip we took to South Beach years ago. It was a gag gift, really—at some point during the trip, I claimed that pi?a coladas were made with frozen bananas, and they had a field day making fun of me for it. Anyway, they came across the banana key chain at some souvenir shop and couldn’t resist.”
I think back to that trip and how bright-eyed and optimistic we were, reunited for the first time since we graduated and moved into new apartments, new jobs, and new relationships. How we stayed up late swapping stories of horrible bosses and money stressors and dating woes. How it had felt like there weren’t enough hours in each day to finish all the conversations we started. How we swore we’d make the trip an annual thing, committed to prioritizing our friendships no matter what.
“Anyway, that was the first and last girls’ trip we took before weddings and babies took over. I’ve been carrying around this stupid banana for six years and I can’t decide if it’s more depressing at this point to leave it on or take it off.” I toss the keys on the coffee table and sink back down into his luxurious couch cushions. “I really don’t want to be someone who begrudges other people their happiness, but sometimes I just feel . . . I don’t know, stuck in between. Or left behind. Do you ever feel that way?”
I finally pause for breath, and when I glance over at him, he’s quiet, his face expressionless. I can’t really read him. I’d like to think he’s just being thoughtful, but he’s probably trying to figure out how to politely remove me from his apartment. I seem to have careened right past “awkwardly personal” and straight into TMI territory.
I immediately regret my honesty. Why on earth am I telling him all this? I sound like some desperate husband hunter; a wannabe bridezilla on steroids. This is a rant best left to my single friends who can commiserate, or people who have no choice but to listen to me complain, like my mom. It’s Dating 101: Never whine about being single. Betty wags her finger in disapproval—Girls who whine stay on the vine!
I let out a self-conscious laugh and attempt to course-correct. “Sorry, got a little carried away there. Was that the kind of oversharing you were looking for? Rant over, I promise.” I seize my glass and shotgun the rest of my wine.
He holds up a hand. “Don’t apologize. Obviously, I can relate.”
I almost laugh out loud. I just bet Jack Bradford sits home alone, lamenting his singledom and crying into his beer. “Somehow I doubt that.”
He looks affronted. “Whose friends do you think all your friends are marrying?”
This time I do laugh, though my face still stings with embarrassment. I look around the room for a weapon I could use to put myself out of my misery. The aged-concrete lamp on the credenza looks heavy enough to do some damage.
There’s a ghost of a smile on his lips. “But seriously, you think men never have these kinds of thoughts? The things we worry about might look a little different, but I can assure you, we have insecurities too.”
“Oh yeah? Let’s hear ’em.”
He tilts his head, considering. “Just trying to figure out what women want is a huge source of stress. How do we show we’re interested without coming on too strong? What if we say the wrong thing? What if we misinterpret intent? Does she want someone better-looking, more athletic, smarter, funnier? Can we afford the life she wants? What if you don’t end up as successful as you’d hoped?”
“Well, you obviously don’t have to worry about that.”
“No, I get to worry about the opposite. Is she only interested in me for my money? Or because of this job and who I know?” He pauses. “Or in this case, will my job be a deal-breaker?”
Oh boy. He’s giving voice to the question I’ve asked myself countless times since this whole charade began—and despite my soul-searching, I’m no closer to an answer. I decide to give that last part a football field–sized berth and focus on the first part of his statement （and mess with him while I’m at it）。
“Hmm.” I pretend to think about it. “For me it was mostly about your looks, but now that I know you know famous people, why don’t you hit me with a list of names and I’ll let you know how interested I am?”
He shakes his head sadly. “Terrible. You’re terrible. Making fun of a guy who just admitted to being insecure.”
“Oh please, you’re the least insecure man I’ve ever met. You’re about as insecure as the Dos Equis guy.”
He casts me a sidelong glance. “You’d be surprised.” It’s the second time he’s said that tonight.
“Prove it.”
He eyes me for a minute, as if weighing the wisdom of whatever he’s considering revealing, before nodding once. “Okay. Are you seeing someone else?”
It’s a good thing I finished that wine, because if I’d had any in my mouth, it would now be soaking the front of his T-shirt （which, come to think of it, would be a highly appealing visual indeed）。 “I’m sorry, what?”
“And look, I realize you don’t owe me an answer. You’d be well within your rights to tell me it’s none of my business. But I’d just like to know what I’m up against.”
Am I seeing someone else?! If he only knew how preposterous that idea is! I can barely keep my current multiple personalities straight without adding another human being to the mix. Honestly, I’d think he was kidding if he didn’t look so serious. Jack Bradford—he of the model-perfect bone structure, certified alpha male, a literal leader among men—is insecure about me?