Me: I don’t like confrontation.
Mr. Wrong Number: Chicken.
Me: I’m not a chicken. I’ll do it, but only because I want to.
Mr. Wrong Number: Atta girl.
When I sat back down, I was full-on grinning. Paul smiled back but looked at me like he was waiting for the punch line, for which I had none, of course. We fell back into small talk, and he was entertaining like a comedian when it came to pop culture. I was cackling as he talked about The Bachelor, and it was going so well that I actually decided to ditch the texting challenge.
Until . . .
“—so I mean yeah, the dude was a creep, but the hashtag Me Too stuff has gotten way out of hand. Like, a guy with money can’t even be alone with a woman anymore.”
I slowly gnawed on a chewy piece of bacon. “What do you mean?”
“These women—not all women, you know—but a lot of women will just make shit up to bring a guy down.”
My hands immediately went to my phone, because the date was done.
Me: Game starts now.
Mr. Wrong Number: Excellent. Give me one of your golden questions.
Me: If you had to choose between showering and brushing your teeth—and you could only choose one—which would you pick?
Mr. Wrong Number: Forever?
Me: Yup.
I glanced up and Paul was eating and looking at the table next to us.
Mr. Wrong Number: I guess I’d go with showering . . . ?
Me: You do realize that no one will ever kiss you again if you stop brushing your teeth.
Mr. Wrong Number: Well I don’t think I’ll be getting a lot of action with B.O., either.
“Do you want to go get more food?” Paul’s eyebrows were up and he was staring at me as if waiting for me to participate.
“No, thanks. I’m good.” I set my napkin on my plate. “But you go ahead.”
He looked perplexed, but went back to the buffet.
Me: I think if I had to choose between tongue-kissing someone who hadn’t brushed their teeth or knocking boots with someone who smelled a little rank, I’d pick the latter.
Mr. Wrong Number: The hell you say.
Me: I know but listen. It’s gross, but if it’s only straight-up sex without foreplay, maybe in a non-facing position, it would be better than licking someone’s furry teeth.
Paul sat back down and sighed. I smiled and rolled my eyes as if the person texting me was just so annoying.
Mr. Wrong Number: I cannot believe I’m saying this, but you might be right.
“So what are you doing the rest of the day?” Paul wasn’t smiling as he scooped up a forkful of eggs, but he was attempting conversation. “Besides texting, that is.”
I stifled a laugh and wondered how many texts had been exchanged. Was Mr. Wrong Number close to being right? “I have to work most of the day, actually.”
Me: He just brought it up. How many are we at?
“That sucks.” Paul cleared his throat and gestured to my phone. “Are you in the middle of something important? Because we can do this another time if you are.”
Aw, hell. Even though I knew he wasn’t the guy for me, I realized he didn’t deserve this, either.
Me: I can’t do this. I can’t be an asshole. I’m just going to finish up the date.
“No.” I set my phone down and took a sip of my very cold coffee. “I apologize. I’m all yours now.”
“Is that right?” He slid into a grin. “Well, then, check, please.”
“Oh, my God.” I was pretty sure he thought he was funny, but I couldn’t even manage an awkward fake laugh. “Are you kidding with that?”
His smile slipped and he blinked fast as he said, “Yeah. Of course I was.”
“Oh. Good.” I cleared my throat and pasted on a polite, closed-mouth smile. “I thought so.”
* * *
? ? ?
AS IT TURNS out, the number of texts doesn’t matter when you and your date end up getting into a heated argument. One minute things were okay and we were talking about restaurants, and the next I was loudly explaining to him how every guy who eats at places like Hooters and Twin Peaks are pigs.
“I’m not talking about the girls who work there, Paul.” I knew I should let it go since the date was clearly the end for us, but this was a hot-button thing for me. Especially when he’d just said that the waitresses liked the attention. “If a girl wants to use her femininity to profit off the douchebags who are willing to pay to ogle her body, more power to her. But the men who specifically choose to go to a restaurant so they can get a quick peek at some young girl’s breasts while shoving food into their sexist faces are just pathetic.”