18. Rhys on the Beach
Rhys on the Beach
For the next week, Rhys and I are joined at the hip. When I’m at work, I text him advice, send him links to self-help articles, and answer any questions he may have about Michelle’s likes and dislikes.
I wouldn’t say Michelle Santos and I were the best of friends.
We used to work in the same office and run in overlapping friend circles.
For Rhys’ sake, I do my due diligence and pore through her social media profiles, armchair detective-ing my way through Monday and Tuesday, compiling my findings into a color-coded dossier. Now he has a partner.
On Wednesday, Rhys visits Rylan under the guise of ASSET collaboration. The best part about being specialists in an emerging field is that no one questions you when you want to mastermind. I wait in stoic silence as Regina ushers him into my office.
“I’ve taken the liberty of making a few notes about Michelle’s preferences,” I launch in as soon as Regina shuts the door, “switch off the lights and let’s begin.”
Rhys sets his messenger bag down wearily. “Why do we need the lights off?” he asks, watching me set up the projector. “Are you... are you giving a presentation?”
“I have some spare time on my hands,” I say, hooking up my laptop, “so I made a slide deck.”
Rhys comes around and peers at my laptop. “How is it possible that your free time grows?”
“If you’re resourceful enough, you’ll find free time anywhere.”
“I thought I’m here to help you with the ASSET,” he mutters. “You know... to do actual work.”
“This is actual work,” I gesture incredulously at my slide deck. “We’ve got a week’s deadline.”
“But the ASSET—”
I roll my eyes. “The ASSET can wait.”
“Don’t you have another board meeting next Monday?” he asks.
“Oh yeah.” I check my calendar, surprised. “I do. How about that?”
Should it bother me that Rhys knows more about my schedule than I do? That being said, I would rather do anything than sit down and fiddle with the ASSET.
I’d rather fiddle with Rhys (take your mind out of the gutter).
In some twisted way, turning Rhys into an eligible bachelor has become my focus, my life’s purpose, my gift to the world.
Why is it a gift? Because of my efforts, society has one less troll to deal with. I’d say that’s a gift, wouldn’t you?
And, okay, speaking from a purely selfish standpoint, helping Rhys grow in life is ten times more satisfying than toying with an infinite scroll of duller than dirt data so a roomful of rich people could get richer.
If helping a lonely incel find true love makes me a hopeless romantic, then I’m guilty as charged.
What’s more, I get to see tangible results.
I’m doing some good in the world versus twiddling my thumbs in a corner office and getting paid a shit ton of money for pushing paper around and pursing my lips at data patterns.
Not that I mind the money, but at some point, you have to step back from the edge of your nihilistic abyss and ask yourself: “What am I doing with my life?”
So I order Rhys to sit and present my carefully curated dossier, a slide deck of all the information I gathered on his crush.
“Commit this to memory,” I say, focusing my laser pointer on a selfie of Michelle screenshotted off her Instagram, “her best side is her right side. She has some acne scars on her left cheek which she’s self-conscious of, so don’t you dare say anything to make her feel bad.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Rhys leans forward, his hands clasped between his knees, drinking in the valuable information.
I wait for him to question why we’re wasting our time learning about Michelle or fire back with a sassy dig about her skin texture. Instead, he unearths a notepad from his messenger bag.
“Notes?” I try to control my surprise. “You’re taking notes?”
His cheeks pink at being called out. “I’m not failing this time.”
“Good,” I nod, moved by his diligence, “good.”
He clicks his pen, ready to lock in. His face is the picture of sincerity and determination.
I’m overcome by an overwhelming sense of pride.
Look how far he’s come. And then, it happens…
That bubbly feeling fizzles and sadness sours my mood, leaving me confused and yearning for something I couldn’t put my finger on.
I click my laser pointer, trying to shake off the feeling.
“Michelle has a Bichon named Clover, who is adorable, but she nips at your ankles. She enjoys window shopping, but not necessarily shopping, as she’s actually very frugal. Tea is her beverage of choice; coffee makes her too anxious. She likes gardens, but is afraid of hummingbirds.”
As I plow through slide after slide about Michelle, I couldn’t help but be just a tiny bit envious of her.
She’s a lucky girl.
It’s not that I’m jealous of her, because deep down I secretly want Rhys for myself.
No.
No way.
He’s like a thorn in my side. No one in their right mind would want to become romantically involved with Rhys.
Even though I’m playing the part of Rumpelstiltskin for Rhys, working tirelessly to spin his chaotic piles of straw into gold, I’ve seen his disgusting floor mattress.
I’m party to all his dirty secrets (I will never forget that giant Jergens bottle with the crusty lotion residue on the spout).
I know how the sausage is made, so to speak.
How can I sample my own sausage when I’m the one making it?
These are Freudian slips that I can never reveal to a living soul, least of all Angie, who would no doubt taunt, “So you want to nibble on his sausage, eh?”
It’s sick, isn’t it? This compulsion to imagine myself in Michelle’s shoes. It’s only that when all is said and done, I can’t help wondering…
If only someone would spend this much time trying to impress me.
* * *
Yearning is a contagious disease. Rhys caught it first; now he’s passed it on to me. I was doing just fine, thriving by lying in my career. If I have any yearning in my soul, it’s a yearning for a career change. If I’m haunted by anything, it’s the ghost of past regrets.
I could’ve been a contender.
I could’ve been somebody.
I could’ve been a marine biologist.
But now, thanks to my considerable efforts in trying to steer Rhys’ life on track, not only am I pining to be a marine biologist, but I want to fall in love, too.
I’ve never been in love. And now it seems that Rhys is about to get there first. Maybe it’s not Michelle I’m jealous of.
It’s Rhys and his potential prospects. I’ve set him up with his dream girl, and all he has to do is not screw it up.
It’s quite a sparkling world of possibilities I’ve opened up for him.
But who will open a door for me?
Where’s my fairy godmother?
I don’t have any romantic prospects, unless you count Sam, the CEO ass-grabber, in which case I’d rather be alone. Sure, he has looks, status, and money. Then again, so do I...
I’m not impressed. He isn’t giving me anything I don’t already have (the only thing he’s capable of giving me is an STD).
Plus, I wasn’t born yesterday. My dad was a successful businessman who kept a mistress the entire time he was married to my mom until she finally had enough disrespect and divorced his cheating ass.
Then she hopped on a bike after one month of freedom and got clipped by a truck.
Not that my dad had anything to do with the accident, but I secretly blame him for making her life a living hell.
Don’t get me wrong, I love my dad, but I don’t respect him.
Just like I don’t respect Sam. Looks fade.
Rich people file for bankruptcy all the time.
I will always remember how Sam groped me while I was drunk, and it was the only human touch I’ve had in a long time.
It was also an angry brand on my left buttcheek.
I said I was lonely. I didn’t say I was desperate.
In the absence of a dateable man, I nurse my yearning, letting it sit like a stone in the pit of my stomach as I focus my efforts on Rhys. I guess you can say I’m living vicariously through him, which is sad when you think about it (so I never think about it).
I focus on what I can change instead.
And I can change Rhys. To prove that I can still do some good in this world, I must change Rhys.
When I’m not texting him pointers at work, we spend our evenings together. Purely business, no pleasure (despite what Angie says).
“We’re on a deadline, Angie,” I remind her when Rhys joined us for dinner a second night in a row.
“Uh-huh.” Her gaze had swept over my face in a thinly veiled attempt to read my motivations. Having come to her own conclusions, she insinuated, “If that’s what we’re calling it now.”
I didn’t care for the implication. “We need to cram a lifetime’s worth of charisma and social etiquette into that boy in one week,” I remind her.
“Mmm.”
“I wouldn’t hang around him if I had a choice,” I insist.
“Girl...” Angie pauses and peers at me with a judgmental tilt of her head. “Are you trying to convince me or yourself?”
“Why would I need to convince myself?” I clamp my mouth shut, stifling my volume.
Rhys was in the bathroom and is liable to hear us.
“We’re doing a good deed here. Do you know how difficult it is to make a natural-born asshole like him into a good man, a dateable, desirable man?
If we can transform him, make Michelle fall in love... We’re giving back to womankind.”
How many times have I repeated those lines to myself? To Angie? By now, it’s become a mantra. If I repeat my mission statement enough, I could bend reality and suck everyone into my delusions. It’s what I do at the office.
Upon hearing my mantra for the 100th time, Angie nods.
I can tell my speech is sinking in. The toilet flushes, and Rhys joins us on the couch.
And then, all of a sudden, for no logical reason, my cheeks boil as if I’d just eaten a mouthful of peppers.
Our meal tonight, a white truffle pizza, is as bland as Angie’s ulcer can make it.
“What’s wrong with you?” Rhys asks over a mouthful of breadsticks. “Your face is red.”