19. In the Bag #2
“It’s just that,” he hesitates, his fingers drumming against his leg, tapping a nervous beat, “nobody has ever referred to me as a ‘catch’ before.”
“Well, you are,” I assure him. “Why do you doubt it?”
He snorts. “When I tried to compliment the pretty cashier at the grocery store…”
Earlier this week, we were picking up ingredients for a salad when Rhys casually mumbled that the cashier was ‘cute.’ Seeing this as the perfect learning opportunity, I suggested that he try complimenting her (not pick her up, mind you), just a casual ‘I like your hair’ or ‘did anyone ever tell you that you’re a dead ringer for Scarlett Johansson? ’”
So Rhys moseys up to her, plops his tomatoes on the conveyor belt, and opens his big mouth: “Did anyone ever tell you that you’re a dead ringer for Ryan Gosling?”
Rhys, being slow on the uptake, didn’t immediately understand why the cashier ‘accidentally’ smashed his heirloom tomatoes. “Why’d she do that for?” he had asked, glancing morosely down at his pulp-splattered T-shirt. “I’d be flattered if someone told me I looked like Ryan Gosling.”
“No woman wants to be told she looks like a dude,” I’d reminded him, “even if he’s a good-looking dude. Do you understand?”
Rhys’ reaction was... well, I wouldn’t go so far as to describe it as ‘stupid.’ I know he’s not stupid.
He’s brilliant with the ASSET and he always has a snappy comeback.
But when it comes to women or interacting with society in general, he could be a stonewall idiot.
So far, teaching him the finer points of social etiquette has been an uphill struggle.
I’d have an easier time teaching a bull how to pirouette inside a china shop than teaching Rhys how to charm a woman.
Now, paralyzed in front of a dusty CPA window, I drill him one more time. “When you’re with Michelle, if the thought pops into your head that she looks like Robert Downey Jr., what do you do?”
Rhys nods, anticipating my next question. “I don’t mention it.”
“What do you say instead?”
He thinks for a moment, then lifts his head confidently. “Nothing.”
All of a sudden, I have hope in humanity again. But let’s not get overconfident. “Or?”
“I compliment something she’s wearing.”
“Or?”
“I tell her she looks pretty today.”
“Or?”
He’s silent for a moment.
“Come on,” I press, “a girl’s be all and end all isn’t to hear she’s pretty. What else?”
“I laugh at her joke,” he says haltingly, “as a compliment to her intelligence.”
“And?” I wait with bated breath and bated hope. He’s on a roll; it would be devastating if he capped off all his answers with a cynical remark.
Rhys rubs the back of his neck. “I remark on the melodic sound of her voice or the brightness of her eyes.”
“Why?” I ask, making sure he’s not just going through the paces to pass a test. It’s important that he understands my lessons.
“Because it’ll make her feel good about herself.”
“And why would you want to do that?” I press further, my question strained with anticipation. So close. So close. Please don’t be an asshole now.
“It beats making her feel bad about herself.” Rhys pauses, tipping his head to the side as if consulting his mental notes. “And it doesn’t hurt to be nice... to anyone, actually.”
“You’ve got. Holy shit, I think you’ve got it!
” I heave a sigh of relief, fighting the urge to fling my arms around him in a giant bear hug.
Such close physical contact with a woman (after never touching any woman) would stun him into a sexual stupor, and I don’t need him going into shock before his big coffee date.
I take a moment and bask in my triumph. The Creature is alive. Eliza Doolittle has learned her vowels.
I did it! By George, I did it. Angie didn’t think I could do it, but indeed I did. I’ve turned this unlikeable troll into a decent human being.
“I said it once and I’ll say it again: you’re a catch. I challenge anyone who says otherwise. You’re ready, Rhys. You’re 100% ready.”
He ducks his head shyly. “All thanks to you.”
“Well,” I shrug, trying to stay humble, “yes... but you’ve always been a prince in disguise. You were just disguised as an asshole and I ‘de-assholed’ you back into society. I believe in you, Rhys.”
“You’re the only one who did…”
If he doesn’t stop this sentimental nonsense, I think I’m going to cry, and I haven’t cried since my mom’s funeral.
“Yes, well…” I’m having trouble speaking, my throat constrained by an un-welcomed wave of maudlin sentiment.
This is not the time to get misty-eyed. “Have a little faith in yourself,” I manage to choke out.
Rhys holds out his hand and I take it, shaking it awkwardly like we’d just completed a deal. It’s the first time I’ve ever touched his hands. His palms are smooth as only a computer geek’s hands can be and soft as only someone who owns a giant bottle of bedside lotion can feel.
Forgetting his nervousness, Rhys gives me a huge grin that inconveniently makes my heart skip a beat.
It’s because I’m so used to seeing his surly expression, his keen eyes flashing in challenge, that I’m blindsided by his unfiltered happiness.
Such naked trust in me as his friend and mentor. Do I deserve it?
What a silly question? Of course I do. I’ve accomplished a monumental feat.
The impulse to hug him seizes me. Every fiber of my being itches to hug him close and keep him safe. A part of me is afraid of what would happen if I touch him, the explosive aftermath of igniting two reactive bodies, especially if one of them just had an erotic dream about the other...
If you see a can of worms for what it is, do you dare open it? It’s better for everyone involved (but especially for me) to leave it alone.
Choosing caution over celebration, I bottle up the urge to hug him and settle into my fussy hen role and pick a piece of lint from his shoulder.
He’s not mine.
The very fact that Rhys even made a cameo in my dream was a symptom of my off-kilter facade of a life.
It’s my guilt manifesting itself in my subconscious; bad karma punishing me with unwanted dreams of the one guy I’ve labeled as ‘off limits.’ He’s my project, tutor, co-conspirator/secret coworker, and I suppose, friend.
How many times do I have to remind myself of this? I don’t shit where I eat.
The only sexy times I should be concerned about is increasing Rhys’ chances of scoring with Michelle.
“Right.” Letting go of my hand, he rubs his sweaty palms on his jeans. “And you’ll be right with me?”
“I’ll be around,” I say. “Just as we talked about.”
He glances down at the gum-stained pavement. I wait patiently beside him, giving him the space to fortify himself and, hopefully, learn to believe in himself.
At long last, he straightens up, appearing, at least on the outside, confident. “Okay, let’s go.”
* * *
The moment we stepped inside the cafe, it’s like we’ve been plucked out of L.A. and transported to a dim Cambridge library. You wouldn’t know you were in the middle of a strip mall at the height of October wildfire season.
A bookshelf stacked with old, leather-bound books lines one wall. Faux ivy climbs the reclaimed wood panels and smothers the counter. A menu with gothic script offers a selection of unauthorized Harry Potter-esque items, from ‘Wizard’s Butter Brew’ to ‘Chocolate Frog Frappes.’
I’ve been to this cafe with my direct reports and thought it had just the right amount of cheesy ambiance to make Rhys and Michelle feel relaxed.
If they run out of things to talk about, they could also comment on the decor, which could then lead to small talk about Michelle’s upcoming trip to England. The bonding possibilities are endless.
We’re the first ones to arrive.
“She must be fashionably late,” Rhys says, his fingers drumming rapidly against his outer thigh. He’s turned a shade lighter since our pep talk, his confidence dissipating with every step. A sheen coats his temples. He’s a tense line of skittish rabbit energy, five minutes away from bolting.
“Michelle is always fashionably late.” Keeping my eyes on the chalkboard menu above the counter, I make a show of rummaging in my tote. “Shit. I forgot my work laptop. Let me just dart out to the car...”
“Wait!” Rhys blocks my exit. “You promised you wouldn’t leave me.”
“Rhys…” I shake my head, exasperated by his backslide. “I can’t go on your date for you. You have to do this yourself.”
“I am doing this myself,” he says. “But just in case I screw up, you’ll swoop in and fix it. We had a deal, remember?”
“Yeah. Yeah. Do you need me to chew your food for you, too?”
My comment makes him laugh. It is a laugh of derision. “Funny,” he says, “because in regard to your progress with the ASSET, I’m still chewing your food for you.”
I curse under my breath. “Listen, I’m not bailing on you, so stop freaking out.
” I point to the parking lot, taking a dramatic step backward.
“I just need my laptop. If you expect me to monitor your date from the sidelines, I might as well catch up on my next presentation... and for that, I need my laptop.”
He peers at me skeptically, already anticipating betrayal. “You’re coming back?”
“Five minutes!”
I don’t know much about his childhood in Vacaville. Maybe his dad slipped out for cigarettes one night and skipped out on the family, jilting his mother on child support while cutting Rhys’ trust into pieces. Now I’m his last resort to repair that trust. And I’ve already failed.
“You abandoned me at Coyote Flame,” he grumbles.
I roll my eyes, exasperated. “Had I known you’d hold it against me for stepping out to puke—”
“If I promised to be someone’s wingman,” Rhys pointed out. “I wouldn’t leave for a second.”
“Okay, listen,” I massage my temple. “We need to snip this umbilical cord. I’m starting to feel like your mother.”
“All I want is someone to have my back—”
“Five minutes,” I call over my shoulder on my way out the door. “If I’m not back in five, sue me.”
Ducking back into the hot noon sun, I slip out my phone and check my messages.
Michelle