Experiments in Offline Dating

Chapter 23 An Experiment in Becoming Jealous of a Spoon

Dinner had been surprisingly civil. I hadn’t minded Tadhg’s company at all. We had definitively established that it wasn’t a date. And I was too tired and too hungry to spiral. But then, just when I’d thought it was safe, it had ended in total brain malfunction.

I had not anticipated what a sexual experience it would be to sit directly across the table from Tadhg and watch him eat ice cream. I couldn’t handle it. I was like a damn pervert watching him with that spoon. He licked his lips. I stared. He stared at me. I felt it everywhere.

I freaked out. I got flustered. I got weird. And then without saying anything, I pushed away from the table and went to the bar to ask for the check so that I could get the hell out of there.

This was not how this was supposed to go.

Ice cream? I never should have allowed ice cream!

I should have wrestled the server to the ground!

I should have slapped the spoon out of Tadhg’s hand!

What the fuck was I thinking? What would be next?

Spreading sunblock across his back? Skinny-dipping?

I had been tested and had fallen at the first hurdle!

“Could you be persuaded to go for one last drink?” Tadhg asked as we left the pub.

I almost said no. I considered running away to my room and ignoring all of this until the next day. But the sooner I got this chat out of the way, the better. I couldn’t handle another day like today.

We walked up the road a few minutes to Kennedy’s bar.

I was instantly soothed by the ambiance here.

It felt almost like someone’s home, with several smaller rooms low-lit by candles, a relaxed jam circle in one room instead of a loud show for tourists.

A soft buzz came from a cool-looking crowd who seemed local, and that too felt soothing, almost like white noise.

“This is so much better.” I took off my earplugs.

“I thought you might like it. Not so busy.”

“How did you know this was here?”

“I found it when I was looking around earlier for that ballbag.”

“We have something to thank him for, then. We should send him a text.”

“Oh, I don’t think he’ll be answering any texts of ours after the hiding I gave him.” He grinned, and a little joy bubbled up my spine.

He left me to save a table, and I watched his back at the bar with all the unblinking concentration of a grade-A pervert.

I wondered what it looked like under all that flannel.

Shit, Maya. Fucking snap out of it! Why couldn’t I just be normal?

We needed to have this talk so that we could verbally agree there would be zero opportunity for a repeat sexual congress (see fig.

6). That way it would be confirmed. It would be decided.

I could forcibly remove the very idea from my realm of possibility and finally act normal again.

But first I had to get through this talk. And it was going to be horrible. He had already made it very clear that he didn’t like having “talks.” So now, on top of my inability to read his cues and be subtle, on top of my awkwardness, I felt like I was forcing him into it.

In my head, I started listing the things that we needed to discuss, to make sure I didn’t forget anything. My pulse picked up. I had to start it. How could I start it? I was going to fuck it up, wasn’t I? Wild horrors of the stupid shit I might say pranced through my head and mocked me.

Then, with the distinct knock of glass on wood, there were two drinks on the table, and Tadhg was sitting across from me with a half smile.

It begins.

“So the barman recommended—” he started.

“I don’t have gonorrhea.”

He froze. His eyes widened a fraction at a time until they were the size of saucers. “Excuse me?” His voice was low. He didn’t want others to hear.

I leaned in closer and lowered my voice too, not because I was embarrassed of not having gonorrhea, but out of respect.

“I don’t have anything. You know. Like, we should have talked about it.

We should have used a condom, but we didn’t.

So I wanted you to know that I got tested before I left, and everything’s all clean in there. In case you were worried.”

“Oh, I uh—”

“And I have an IUD, so you know. You don’t have to . . . unless your guys are like super-tenacious!” I laughed. He did not. “I jest. That was a joke. Glad that’s out of the way. Right? Whew! It’s like, you know, in case you were worried.” Get to the point!

He had to put a hand up to stop me. “I gotcha, Maya. Please.” He looked like he was trying to swallow down a hot coal. He hated this.

“Which is totally. Like, it’s one hundred percent my fault.

I know that. I’m sorry, Tadhg.” My voice was getting louder again.

I was making a total fucking disaster out of this, and the recognition twisted my stomach, but I couldn’t stop.

I had to push it out. “You didn’t even do anything.

I just, it was so rainy, you know, which was not your fault, but your shirt was all wet and it was hot and I just threw myself at you!

Standard operating procedures went out the window!

I wanted you so badly that I couldn’t see straight. ”

“All right, Maya. Do you think you can keep this between us, though, before all of Dingle hears ye? You’re fine. You don’t owe me an apology.”

“I totally do, though!”

He took a long sip of his drink. “You don’t. Yesterday was . . .” He ran a hand through his thick chestnut waves and let out a big lungful of air. He looked like he was in physical pain. “You don’t owe me an apology. I think”—he sucked in a breath—“I’m the one that owes you an apology.”

“No, I—”

He grabbed my wrist and cut me off. “Hold on,” he said softly.

“Give me a minute to get this out.” He closed his eyes, then tipped his pint back and finished half of it in one long, telling shot.

“I’m not any good at this. Any of it. You’re here looking for a husband, and, you see, well, I don’t want to take advantage.

I’m not.” He sighed again. So much sighing added percussive accompaniment to the timpani pulsing in my ears.

“I happen to have it on very good authority that I make a terrible husband.” I tried to contradict him again, but his hand, still on my wrist, gave a little squeeze, and I shut my mouth.

“I’m not good with women. Or anyone, really. I’m moody. I’m always saying the wrong thing. I insult people when I don’t mean to. I forget that people can be sensitive. And I get into my own stuff, so focused that I forget there are other people who want my attention, who deserve my attention.”

He’d let go of my wrist and was looking down, playing with the coaster, rubbing a thumbnail against a line in the table. Clearly wishing he were anywhere but here.

“My ex-wife, she used to try. She’d get all dressed up and cook us some fabulous dinner, and I wouldn’t even notice—grab a bowl and head out back to the barn.

Or I’d say something careless and send her into floods of tears.

I’m just—I’m an asshole. I’m selfish. I’m not good for anybody.

I get too caught up in my own work.” He let out another huge sigh, as if he’d resigned himself to this frank conversation even though it might kill him.

“And I don’t know if you even thought of me as a candidate or not, maybe you were just hoping for a holiday fling, but I’m not really too sure that a fling would be a good idea either.

So I’m really sorry, Maya, if I did something to lead you on or confuse you, but I should take myself out of the running. ”

“What running?”

He finally looked back up, and his face was contorted in awkward pain. “You know. For a husband.”

I laughed. Maybe it was rude, I wasn’t sure, but either way I couldn’t help myself.

His brows drew in confusion, or maybe annoyance.

I tried to stop, but that just made me laugh more.

Then his shoulders began to shake, and I realized that he was laughing with me, and all the awkward pent-up stress evaporated from my bloodstream and left my mouth in breathy, tired gusts.

“I don’t want a husband, Tadhg.”

“What? That’s why you’re here.”

“Yeah, no. I’m very happily single. Is that what you thought? No wonder you were so nervous!” I laughed again and took a sip of my beer.

“But then why . . .? Ahhh, your podcast.”

“My podcast!”

“You’d do all this? For a podcast?”

“Well, not just one episode, a whole season. But yeah, I’ve done much worse than this. I went dumpster diving for a date once. At a strip mall behind a Mexican restaurant.”

“What? How is that a date? No, don’t answer that.”

“There was a lot of guacamole.”

“But why? Why this? If you’re not looking for a partner, how did you even get into a dating podcast in the first place?”

“Data collection.”

“What?” He leaned forward as if he had misheard.

“I go on so many dates to collect data on them. Then I get nerdy about stats and talk about it on my show, and for some reason, people like it. I just want to understand it better.”

“Understand dating?” He sounded incredulous.

“Yeah.”

“And how’s that going for you?”

I scoffed. “The results speak for themselves.” He laughed and I soaked it up.

“But yeah, can’t complain, honestly. I love my job.

And while dating still makes zero fucking sense to me, treating it like an experiment, and hearing all the horror stories that the listeners call in with, makes me feel normal. Less like I’m broken.”

His eyebrows drew together. “What do you mean, broken?”

“I used to take the bad dates more personally. I thought it was because I wasn’t neuro-normative enough. Because I’m autistic. But now it’s just a science experiment. Quantitative science isn’t personal.”

“I didn’t know you were autistic.”

“Yep. Lots of people say that, but I can’t see why—the signs are all there.” I laughed and took another swig. I liked the look on his face. It wasn’t shocked, or confused, or pitying. I may as well have told him I wore contact lenses.

I went on, “I don’t think relationships are for me, if I’m honest. I’ve never felt anything even remotely close to falling in love.

Which is actually fine, because romantic love seems to make people totally irrational.

Plus, I like my life the way it is.” He looked to be chewing this over.

I kept talking. “I’m not even sure I’m capable of those feelings.

Like maybe I’m just not made for romantic love, and I don’t really want to have to force myself into some box just because other people think that my life is missing something without it. ”

“So . . . have you never had a serious partner, then?” His shoulders had relaxed.

He seemed to be more comfortable talking about me and my issues than his own.

I had relaxed too. Because we were on the same page.

We’d agreed that neither of us wanted anything serious and a fling was a bad idea.

We were on stable ground again. And it was a massive fucking relief.

“Not really. I dated a boy in high school for six months, and a few guys in college who lasted a little while. But no, not serious to me, if I’m honest. Either they were too clingy and wanted way too much of my time, or they were just keeping me around as an option, or we were nerding out on the same things and ended up falling into something that was more like book club buddies with a side of sex than anything else.

I could never really be my whole self. Either they didn’t see me at all, and I didn’t feel free to be myself, or we shared one particular nerdy interest and hyper-fixated on that and nothing else.

Now, of course, I go on a lot of dates because of my podcast. But no.

No one I’ve wanted to spend the rest of my life with.

” I laughed. “Sounds like a prison sentence, frankly.”

He nodded. To his credit, he didn’t try to tell me that one day I would meet someone and just know, or any crap that most people usually responded with.

The look in his eyes was warm. “Well, I’d never had anyone go this far to get out of dating me.”

“Hey! You just got finished friend-zoning me!”

“Yeah, but I didn’t know I was already in the friend zone, did I?”

We laughed and drank again. My stomach had unknotted itself.

“I’m so relieved that we’re on the same page.

You know. We’re on this trip together, there’s no getting away from each other.

If things turn awkward, then it would be really unpleasant.

And, of course, I’ve still got all these dates to go on and my interviews to focus on.

So, yeah. I’m really, really relieved. This conversation wasn’t anywhere near as awkward as I thought it was going to be. ”

“You got off easy.”

“Easy? Hardly! Now I know what sex with you feels like.” I laughed some more and drank up, but he didn’t. His face had changed. Oh, shit. What did I say now? Just when I thought I was out of the woods.

He didn’t say anything. I didn’t know what I’d said wrong, so I didn’t know how to fix it.

But his face . . . Did he think I was saying that the sex was bad?

I rushed to try to explain the joke. “It’s like my punishment, you know?

I haven’t stopped thinking about it all day!

I’m so constantly turned on, I can hardly function.

” I laughed again. “The images going through my mind! I’ve got a long, painful trip ahead of me. ”

He inhaled a deep breath, blinked a few times. “You shouldn’t tell me things like that, Maya.”

“Really? I’m sorry. I don’t have much of a filter. I usually just say what I’m thinking.”

“I . . . Yeah. I’m learning that.”

We both finished our pints. I wasn’t sure if I’d messed things up again.

“Hey—are you tired?” His voice sounded neutral—light again.

I had been really tired. I should have been really tired.

I had drained my battery a million different ways already that day.

But I looked up at Tadhg’s eyes, and they crinkled at the corners, and somehow I was .

. . just a little less burnt out . . . a little more curious .

. . a little less heavy on my feet and had a little more spark in my stomach.

“Why? What did you have in mind?” I cocked an eyebrow.

“Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“That tone of voice. This will need to be an innuendo-free space if this is going to work.”

“Well, I didn’t mean to innuendo. Can one innuendo by accident?”

“Why don’t we debate that—as friends—over one last pint? There’s a place up the way that I want to check out.”

“Will that make this a pub crawl? Because I’ve never been on a pub crawl, and I really want to go on one.”

He smirked. “Three pubs? I mean, we probably won’t be crawling, thankfully, but yeah. It’s a solid start.”