“No! That would probably constitute sexual harassment.” Ari grabs a stick of deodorant off a display rack, opens the cap, and inhales the aggressively strong fragrance. “Usually this is something I do with people I’m trying to go home with.”
It’s exactly the kind of maddeningly ambiguous statement that sends his brain in five directions at once.
On the other hand, she probably won’t remember this conversation tomorrow.
Josh sighs. “We’re not leaving until this happens, are we?” If his coping mechanism is logging hours at Crunch, apparently this is Ari’s.
“Three things, Dust Daddy.” She walks backward—stumbling slightly—toward the tower of plastic shopping baskets at the entrance. “One minute. Set your timer?”
“Okay,” he agrees, converting one Drunk Ari minute into five Regular Person ones. “If you also buy an enormous bottle of water.”
“I hope you have a plan.” She hands him a basket. “I’m really good at this.”
“I always have a plan.”
“Aaaaand…go!” she yells, tearing down the aisle toward the kitchen supplies with no warning, no three-two-one countdown. “Let your dirty little imagination soar!”
Three minutes, twenty seconds, and two incoherent shouted verses of “My Shot” later, Ari sprints to the register, where Josh has been waiting patiently with his basket.
“I can’t believe I did that before the timer went off!” He stifles a laugh as she reaches for her selections. “Okay, I got”—she gasps for air—“spatula”—she hits him on the chest with a satisfying thwack—“that’s an impact implement. Toothbrush case, with ridges, obviously. And plastic wrap, extra clingy.” She peeks into his basket, still out of breath. “Your turn.”
“Hairbrush. Latex gloves. Baby oil.”
Ari gets quiet, stares at him, looks down at the items in the basket again, and then back up.
“Josh. Josh, I feel God in this Duane Reade tonight. You total”—she’s yelling now—“Fucking. Perv.” Without warning, she launches herself at him, wrapping him in a giant bear hug. Or a petite-medium bear hug, considering her size. A rush of warmth courses through his body. She hasn’t ever touched him this much. It feels like months since anyone so much as shook his hand. He tentatively raises his arms to reciprocate—for once, the motion seeming automatic, rather than forced—when she suddenly breaks the hug and sets his basket on top of the counter at the register. He tries to mask his disappointment. And his hard-on.
“Congratulations, we are purchasing all of your items to commemorate this moment,” she declares. “God, a paddle-style hairbrush?” She cackles. “You should add this skill to your dating profiles.”
“No,” he says firmly.
Her expression changes to something like panic. “Oh shit, we forgot the Dust Daddy!”
Josh avoids eye contact with the bored-looking cashier, who sighs as he scans each item. When he gets to the baby oil and then the NyQuil, something seems to snap into place.
The cashier looks up. “Not throwing away your shot, huh?”
* * *
—
“ANOTHER ONE?” ARI ASKS, WHEN the credits start to roll on Grown Ups 2, the ninth terrible movie they’ve watched over the phone in the last two weeks. It’s becoming a routine: How to be pathetically alone, together.
Josh turns off his TV, letting his eyes adjust to the dark. “I really thought we exhausted the Adam Sandler oeuvre last week.”
“Nope. That man is a renewable resource. There is always another Adam Sandler film. But if you’re tapping out, I’ll just hang up and get some work done.”
“What kind of work?” he asks, sitting up.
He double-checks that his alarm is set for five forty-five a.m., which should give him enough time to shower and do his complete morning grooming routine before the deep stretch yoga class Briar forced him into. Well, not so much “forced” as sent him unsolicited screenshots from the instructor’s Instagram account, which demonstrate her passion for fitness, her flexibility, and her great taste in athleisurewear.
“You refuse to laugh at any of my Rob Schneider hot takes, but I bring up something boring and now you’re interested? All right. Would you rather help me write a funny-yet-touching father-of-the-bride toast or an essay about why it’s critical to provide free access to menstrual hygiene products?” She takes a breath. “That one is for a best man speech, obviously.”