14. The Wingman
The Wingman
I sip my matcha latte and frown at my screen. The ASSET looms before me, a little less daunting now that I’ve managed to sit still and finally get acquainted with the basics. It isn’t too complex either.
I can confidently say that I’m on the right track and it’s only been fifteen minutes.
Imagine how much I could master if I sit still for another fifteen minutes.
In fact, I might just master the ASSET by tonight if I wanted to, but where would be the challenge in that?
The way I see it, mastery of the ASSET is like a marathon, not a sprint.
It’s better for my overall mental well-being to space out my information intake and treat myself for exceeding expectations.
I shut my laptop, convinced that if I cram anymore, I’ll push myself to the point of exhaustion.
The brain, like any muscle, must have time to relax.
I deserve a break.
Stretching, I search for my tutor. The cafe is packed, every seat occupied with a line forming out the door.
I’m tucked away at a corner table, beneath the glow of a pendant light with sparkly red fringe.
The cafe is in a transitional period, doing away with last decade’s millennial neon signs and knock-off mid-century chairs for a cozy bohemian vibe involving mismatched chairs and comfy throw pillows.
The drinks are still overpriced… such is the way.
Rhys is at the counter, ordering us a cup of coffee. As he’s paying, I couldn’t help noticing two ladies checking him out.
And why shouldn’t they? With his new makeover, he looks like he stepped right out of the pages of GQ (and that’s not an exaggeration).
He took my advice and wore his burnt sienna sweater over corduroy trousers. His hair flops over his eyes cavalierly versus how he used to wear it: unhygienically. There’s a difference. One is intentionally disheveled; ‘messy because I’m beautiful.’ The other says, ‘I have a dandruff problem.’
My creation is hot. Anyone with a pulse can see that. Look at those women checking out his ass. I did that. I picked out those pants. No one would even notice his ass if I hadn’t trashed his baggy cargos and introduced him to Neiman Marcus.
The ladies whisper to each other, giggling like schoolgirls though they appeared to be pushing sixty.
They’re both sultry Mrs. Robinsons, and as far as I’m concerned, Rhys is not discerning with age.
As Rhys turns around, the blonde one, bearing a striking resemblance to Jennifer Coolidge, sidelines him while her friend flanks him from the other side.
These ladies are attempting a flirtation.
I sit up straighter, straining to pick up snatches of their conversation over the din of the cafe.
I’m too far away to hear a damn thing, but I can read body language.
The ladies creep closer to him, practically rubbing up against him like a pair of cats at a scratching post. Meanwhile, Rhys being Rhys, doesn’t know what to do with himself.
He seems stunned by their unexpected attention, his expression unreadable as he struggles to balance his drink order.
Oh God. It’s too awkward to watch. I can only hope for the best. I’ve given him my best pointers.
I’ve made him watch Pride & Prejudice and schooled him on the finer points of what you shouldn’t say to women.
When Mr. Darcy said, “She’s tolerable but not handsome enough to tempt me,” it took considerable effort on my part to make him see that, no, it’s not a harmless observation.
Yes, Elizabeth Bennet is within her rights to be offended, much as I was offended when I met Rhys.
“But Darcy didn’t know she overheard,” Rhys had insisted. “He can’t help that she was eavesdropping.”
“Well, I wasn’t eavesdropping when you told me I’m prettier in pictures than in real life. Michelle Santos wasn’t eavesdropping when you volunteered that she looked a little heftier than you expected. I’m seeing a trend here and an obvious solution. You need to keep your observations to yourself.”
Rhys chewed on that for an entire weekend. Hopefully, the lesson stuck. Unable to hear their conversation, I watch Rhys’ lips move. Oh no. He’s speaking… Never a good sign. Since the ladies have their backs turned to me, I can’t read their reactions.
I don’t hold out hope that he will charm their pants off. When it comes to interpersonal interactions, Rhys is slow on the uptake, and Rome wasn’t built in a day.
I try to return to my work. The numbers blur before me, making little sense.
How can I possibly concentrate with this drama unfolding before me?
The ASSET will just have to wait. I tap my foot impatiently, stealing glances at Rhys with his middle-aged admirers.
Okay. It’s been ten minutes, and they hadn’t stormed off or tossed their drinks in his face.
This is good. They’re still lingering. The Jennifer Coolidge cone tosses her head back in laughter and playfully slaps his shoulder.
Oh. We have a development. This momentous occasion should be documented. Reaching for my phone, I snap a few stealth photos.
A few seconds later, Rhys slides into the opposite chair. “Carina!” He hands me my drink, a flush spreading across his cheek. “You’ll never guess what happened.”
“I have an idea,” I say, smiling into my flat-white. “What happened?”
“These cougars came up to me and started complimenting my sweater.”
I wrinkle my nose. “Do you really have to call them ‘cougars’?”
Rhys lifts his head, alarmed. “No good? The blonde one is pushing my mom’s age.”
“I’m thirty-three. If some guy called me a ‘cougar,’ I would be pissed. When in doubt, call women ‘ladies.’”
“This is good stuff.” Rhys jots down my suggestions into his Notes app, reading as he types. “Ax the ‘cougar.’”
“So the lovely ladies liked your sweater?” I can’t help adding, “The sweater you didn’t like?”
Rhys sets down his phone, shaking his head, dazed. “They asked about the color. I remembered you called it ‘sienna.’”
“Burnt sienna,” I nod. “And?”
“They were impressed I was so exacting with the color. Said most men would call it ‘orange.’ Then Jackie, the blonde one, pinched the material between her fingertips like this... See? She did that.”
“I saw what they did.” My lips twitch. His excitement is endearing.
Rhys flops back in his chair and takes a contemplative sip of his coffee. “I’ve never had anyone feel up my sweater before,” he says more to himself than to me.
“So then what happened?”
“Then they gave me their numbers.” He drags his hands through his hair, stunned into a momentary bout of silence. “It was unreal.”
“Hey,” I kick his foot underneath the table, “look at you. Which one are you going to text?”
He blinks. “Both of them.”
My eyes widen. “Both of them! Are you even into cou — I mean mature women? These ladies are what? Pushing sixty?”
“Early fifties,” Rhys corrects. “But they don’t look a day over forty and they’re both smoking hot, er, I mean, lovely.”
“True,” I mumble, unaccountably bothered by...
By what? The fact that he got hit on by two women and is considering going out with both?
Meanwhile, what do I get? Sessions with the ASSET?
I suppose I am jealous... Not over Rhys.
I’m not interested in him in the least, and vice versa.
Let’s make that clear. I envy the fact that he has dates to look forward to while I have homework.
I’d say he’s getting the better end of the deal.
“In any event,” he continues, “they’ve invited me for drinks at this place called Coyote Flame.”
I stiffen in alarm. “Coyote Flame?!”
“What?” Rhys asks, baffled by my reaction
“That’s a notorious cougar hangout! I thought it shut down years ago.”
“It’s back. Relocated to Laguna Hills and under new ownership. Same clientele.”
“Cougars,” I mumble grimly.
He narrows his eyes, amused. “I thought we’re not calling them ‘cougars,’ but yeah... pretty much divorcées looking for a good time without the attachment.”
I prop a hand under my chin, glaring at him dubiously. “I never figured you for a cougar hunter.”
He squares his shoulders. “A pretty woman is a pretty woman regardless of age.”
“Who are you? You would never have said anything so enlightened a month ago.” I suppose I deserve a pat on the back. Somehow, I don’t feel like celebrating. I narrow my eyes. “It’s because you anticipate getting laid, isn’t it?”
To his credit, Rhys clears his throat and flips my laptop around. “How’s the ASSET going?” he says, changing the topic. “Did you finally bypass the third neural network?”
I wipe a drip from the edge of my mug, avoiding eye contact. “I’m getting there...”
“You don’t seem ready for your next presentation.”
“All things considered, I was never ready, and yet I made it work somehow.”
“But this time you’ll know what you’re talking about.
” Without meeting my eye, Rhys taps and taps on the keyboard, feigning keen focus on my work.
“Satisfactory progress on your changelog, but you broke this batch.” His words recede into a drone of mind-numbingly dull jargon, as per usual whenever we get into the weeds of the ASSET.
Right now, I could not care less about the ASSET.
I’m still imagining Rhys with a cougar on each arm.
I don’t like this image. Much as I’m proud of him for taking the next step toward expanding his social life, I was expecting baby steps from him, not for him to storm into a cougar bar right out of the gate.
“Carina!” Rhys frowns at me. “Are you listening? Your changelog still needs work. Your metadata is a mess. You broke the inter—”
“Much like you’re going to break some hips at Coyote Flame?” Shit. I didn’t mean to say that. I know what I sound like. I sound like a jealous girlfriend.
He blinks at me, his expression somewhere between confounded and amused. “What’s this about breaking hips? Those ladies look fit. It’s more likely they’d break mine.”
I roll my eyes. “Now you grow a sense of humor!”
Rhys frowns. “Is something wrong? You seem upset?”