“Please don’t call me that,” I say forcibly, half joking.
“What? Why not?” He looks comically offended.
“It’s not a particularly sexy name,” I say. “Winnifred is bad enough, but Fred? I sound like the creepy uncle you don’t invite to Thanksgiving.”
“Agree to disagree.”
“Imagine crying out ‘Fred’ in the bedroom.” His smirk grows, and I glare at him, deciding to make my point clear. “Oh, Fred.” I moan. “Yes, Fred!” I cry, probably a bit too loudly, in fake passion. “It’s awful.” A few of the other party guests, confused and perhaps the tiniest bit offended, turn toward us. I salute them before they go back to their own conversations, my eyes held on Bo.
It’s horribly cliché, but his smile is beaming—far brighter than the sun. I feel myself bloom with it, as if it’s my own personal version of photosynthesis.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” I ask, feeling suddenly shy.
“You’re funny,” he says matter-of-factly, his expression remaining.
Huh.
I do my best to look around the room, pretending the other guests and their costumes are suddenly much more interesting to me. I’m hyperaware that I’m blushing at the compliment and wishing, desperately, that I could stop.
When I do finally look back, Bo’s attention is focused on the back of the tufted couch. With his hand around the top of my seat, the tip of his thumb traces one of the fabric buttons in a small, circular motion over and over.
I shouldn’t be affected by it, and I’ll deny it if ever confronted, but there’s something inherently sexual about the motion. I watch, feeling far too enraptured, as he circles the button tenderly. My throat tenses as my lips part, imagining his thumb working me over in a similar way. It’s been months since a date went well enough that I allowed a man to touch me like that—not that it was all that great when he did. Still, judging by the rattling of stuttered breaths in my chest, I think I’d let Bo give it a try.
“So,” Bo says, dragging my gaze from the button toward his face, “you’re not here with anyone…”
“Is that a question?” I ask, regaining my voice with a noticeable rasp.
He rolls his eyes. I like that too.
“I suppose,” he elongates the word, “the question is: why?”
“Oh, so we’ve gotten to the what are your faults? part of the evening?” I ask.
“I was thinking more along the lines of how is someone like you single? but sure,” he says.
“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’t say 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 became well, sweetie, the game is on. Why don’t you go finish up your homework in your room? Or no, 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 wanted everything his 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 little too long. 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 this look is, 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 words wanted me and 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 my baby-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.”
“I mean,” 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’s fun, and part of me wishes we had more time before Sarah and Caleb decide to kick everyone out for the night. But maybe I could convince him to stay a little longer.