Chapter Three How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days, dir. by Donald Petrie #2
literally she brought a whole box of her stuff to my dorm on our second date. Like I understand there’s some truth to stereotypes, but I thought we were better than that.”
Eli laughs, his heart feeling lighter.
“But there were other girls, nicer girls, worse girls.”
“And you were never scared?”
“At first. It’s weird, you know? Hard to explain. Like if aliens landed tomorrow and we had to explain how we as a society
go through a whole courting process that involves apps and how shallow we are, and how we have sex without the desire to procreate,
you’d realize how weird all of this is.”
“You’re imagining very rigid aliens,” Eli tells her. “You don’t think they’d be more relaxed?”
“Depends on what aliens we encounter first.”
“True.”
“I think being nervous is a good thing, though.”
“Really?” Eli can’t think of a time he’s ever been nervous in a helpful way. Even the days leading up to the best ones of
his life, his first appointment with his gynecologist about going on HRT, his first day of college, his first consultation
for his top surgery, his final exams, his graduation. All of those core memories had been preceded by weeks of anxiety and
fear.
“Mm-hmm.” Rose tugs on a strand of hair, twirling it with her finger before she releases it. “I think it shows that you care.
That you’re afraid to mess things up. If you were some uber-confident guy who went into every interaction expecting everyone
to love you just for breathing, then you’d be pretty insufferable.”
“But those guys never have to worry about what people think of them.”
“Trust me, Eli. Those guys worry too much about what people think of them. More than either of us ever have.” Rose stands back, and Eli peers up at her through
the short curtain of hair that shrouds his forehead now.
“How’s it look?” Eli asks, feeling relief for the first time all day.
“You tell me.” She takes Eli by the shoulders, leading him to stand in front of the mirror where his hair is curled to perfection . Fluffy with plenty of body, the acceptable frizz that Eli walks around with totally gone.
“You’re a miracle worker, Rose,” he tells her, leaning further toward the mirror to see every single curl perfectly in place.
“I know. Just buy me dinner this weekend.”
“Done.”
“Eli!” Patricia calls for him from his attached bedroom.
A Mario Kart tournament had decided who got the master bedroom with the en suite, and Eli had pulled through with his usual
Yoshi build. Patricia had contested the win, citing that Eli had spent more time than the rest of them practicing the shortcuts
of the track, but the argument died when Eli reminded her that she’d picked the game.
Besides, having the extra square footage meant paying $300 more in rent than the other two, so she wasn’t that upset.
“Get in here!”
Patricia has three sweaters on Eli’s bed, all from what she’s labeled his Grandpa Collection. Jacquard and wool sweaters with
all kinds of wild patterns that he’d procured from thrift stores all over the city. Eli would have argued against the grandpa
allegations, but the sweaters had most likely come from someone’s grandfather’s wardrobe.
Though Eli preferred not to think about who his thrifted clothing came from, especially when he stumbled upon a large collection,
all the same size, donated all at once.
Those poor—probably dead—grandpas.
“No pants?” he asks, picking the cerulean with accents of gold and white with diamonds and stripes. The perfect amount of hideously tacky, and just to Eli’s taste.
“You’re wearing these.” Patricia reaches into Eli’s dresser, pulling out what Eli calls his sweatjeans. Which just means they’re
Uniqlo jeans with drawstrings, but God they’re comfortable. “Cuff them. And wear your white Filas.”
“Filas?” Eli stares at her. “You don’t think I’m going too casual?”
Patricia scoffs, falling back onto the bed. “You’re getting tofu soup and going to the movies. Besides, casual fashion will
set the mood just fine.”
“You think he’ll like me?” Eli asks, pulling his white undershirt on, tucking it into his pants before he ties the drawstring.
He asks the question quietly, not wanting Rose to hear him. Hell, he doesn’t want to ask Patricia the question, but she’s
the only one he wants to talk to right now.
“I thought you didn’t care?” Patricia eyes him with a satisfied smirk.
“And I don’t. I don’t care about dating, it’s stupid.”
But it’s not a crime to want to be liked by someone.
“I think you’re pretty neurotic,” Patricia says. “And that you need a haircut, that your taste in movies and music is pretty pretentious. And that you have skin so perfect I’d kill my grandmother for it even though you literally just
wash it with warm water and some over-the-counter nonsense you buy from Target.” Patricia lets out a long huff. “But yes.
I think that he’s going to like you.”
“I get zits sometimes,” he jokes. “You’re just saying all of that because you’re my friend.”
“No, I’m saying that despite being your best friend. I know you better than anyone else, so I know that he’s going to like you.”
“It’d be nice if this went well.”
“I know, babe. I think it will. And even if it doesn’t, hey, it’s a date, you’re getting back out there. And that’s enough
of a win for right now.”
Eli tries to take her words to heart, because he does want this to go well, despite his assurances that it doesn’t matter, the lie he keeps telling himself that he doesn’t care.
Because he does.
“It’s going to be fun, you’ll see.” Patricia stands, hanging up the leftover sweaters Eli hadn’t picked on the clothes rack
that sits next to Eli’s dresser. The true exchange for the en suite bathroom was the pantry of a closet that barely contains
Eli’s heavier winter coats, so a freestanding clothes rack is a necessity.
Patricia offers him a kiss on the forehead before she walks out of the bedroom, leaving Eli to himself. He can’t resist a
smile, finally feeling reassured for once. He goes to his dresser, grabbing the rounded bottle of Orphéon—one of the few luxuries
he affords himself—that he dabs on his wrists and behind his ears, letting the earthy smell of jasmine and cedar relax him
before he grabs his phone, double-checking that he has the right address for the restaurant.
It’s a short walk and a thirty-minute bus ride up to Geary on the 22 from Eighteenth and Church, which means there’s a whole
half hour where Eli gets to try and talk himself down from the ledge he’s climbed up on.
He picks the single seat by the very back door, opening his phone to tell Peter that he’s on the way to the restaurant.
He doesn’t even realize that his leg is shaking, but instead of nerves, it feels like excitement. Eli can’t help but smile
at the idea of what tonight could be, where it could lead. Because it’s nice, despite how terrifying the idea is, despite
how worried he’s been about tonight. He takes Patricia’s words to heart, thinking of them the entire bus ride to Japantown.
He wants to believe in tonight. He really does.
So, Eli makes the decision. And instead of making it to spite Keith, he makes it for himself.
Because tonight is going to be good.
He’s going to have fun .
***
An hour.
That’s how long Eli sits at the table in Doobu alone. An hour and fifteen minutes actually, but who’s really counting?
At the ten-minute mark, he figured it didn’t have to mean anything. He’d managed to get to the restaurant a few minutes early
and ordered waters for Peter and himself.
People are late all the time. Twenty minutes in, he figured that Peter must be a bus rider like him, and there’s really no
accounting for what might happen on Muni on a Friday night. There’s even an art festival a few blocks over, so maybe Peter’s
just running late?
There have been mornings where Eli’s been late for work because someone wanted to argue with the driver, or the wheelchair
ramp broke just as someone was getting on.
People are late all the time. There’s no need to worry.
At thirty minutes, Eli orders a bottle of strawberry soju, the ice in his water long since melted. It’s a poor combination,
a mostly empty stomach mixed with the too -tasty alcohol. He pulls out his phone, texting Peter again to let him know that he’s here, waiting for him. But the read
receipt never appears.
At forty minutes, he orders a second bottle of soju, the sinking feeling that he’s been ghosted settling into his stomach.
The older waitress seems to take pity on him too, bringing him a plate of kimchi pancakes that she promises are on the house.
Or maybe she just doesn’t want an obviously drunk man who was—even more obviously—stood up to make a scene.
He isn’t going to cry, because he’s an adult; and he tells himself that the alcohol is making things better, even if that’s not really true and Eli hasn’t gotten drunk since college, so his tolerance is in the garbage.
It’s then that he maps out the rest of his night, deciding that he’s not going to let Peter ruin his plans. Technically, Patricia
and Rose only wanted him to get out, and going out doesn’t mean he has to be on a date. He can date himself! He can eat the delicious soup he’s been craving all week, go see a movie he loves on
the big screen with a crowd that enjoys it just as much. He might even treat himself to the gourmet caramel-and-cheddar popcorn
at the AMC.
He calls the waitress back, ordering his usual soon tofu soup and another plate of kimchi pancakes so that way he can try
and sober up before the movie begins.
At the hour mark, Eli’s food arrives.
And at an hour and fifteen minutes, a large Korean man stumbles through the front door of the restaurant. People have been
coming in and out all night, so Eli doesn’t think anything of the guy at first.
Dressed for the colder night in a dark gray hoodie and matching sweatpants, and very obviously not for a date, there’s a wild