12. Floor Mattress Deviant #3
I’m enjoying this a little too much. I feel like I’ve been handed an opportunity no woman has ever been given: the chance to makeover a willing man. Emphasis on willing. I can’t believe Rhys has actually asked me to do this.
“First, we tackle your look...”
“My look? What’s wrong with my look?” Rhys glances down at his black hoodie and baggy parachute-pant combo.
“If you even have to ask, you’re more clueless than I think.” My eyes rove over his hair. “Ick.”
As usual, his hair is sloppy and unkempt (not in a premeditated tousle, but in a greasy tangle).
It’s the difference between ‘disheveled-on-purpose’ versus ‘sloppy-by-default.’ The first has an element of style.
The latter is just plain uncool. Unfortunately for Rhys, his default mode is permanently set to uncool. I’m going to change that.
“I don’t think I’m that bad,” he says.
“Do you want my help or not?”
“I want your help.”
“Will you be able to take it?”
“I think so.” Taking a deep breath, he nods, punctuating his certainty. “Alright. Lay it on me.”
I study Rhys, sitting cross-legged on the floor, wolfing down his pizza. “Hmm…” I narrow my eyes at his sad, slightly funky clothes. “You’re dressed like a bum. Or worse, a gamer who hasn’t emerged from his room in a month.”
Rhys looks down at his outfit. “I thought you said I dressed like a nu-metal band member.”
“I was being nice,” I say. “No self-respecting woman would touch you with a ten-foot pole.”
“These are my hanging around the house clothes.”
“You also hang around L.A. in them.” I wrinkle my nose, side-eyeing his hoodie, and make a noise of deep displeasure. “Hobo vibes.”
“What’s the problem? I just did the laundry.” Rhys lifts his arms and sniffs his armpits. “I don’t smell.”
“Good,” I say. “But you look like you do. You’re a mess, and I’ll have to overhaul your entire look to make you presentable. I take it I have your full cooperation?”
Rhys opens his mouth to object, then mashes his lips together.
“Good.” To my surprise, I’m relishing playing Professor Higgins to his Eliza Doolittle.
Look at him. He’s so deliciously low. If I can make him desirable to just one woman (Or man.
We don’t judge here), I’ve made a difference in the world.
“Tackling your outward appearance is just the beginning. In fact, I’d say looks are the easy part.
It’s surface-level changes. Underneath all your bad grooming, horrible posture, and dreary wardrobe, some may say you’re attractive.
” I peer at his face. “You’ve got good bone structure and okay skin.
You’ll need a better skincare routine. What are you using for your face? ”
Rhys plucks at the drawstring of his parachute pants. “Soap and water,” he says.
“What kind of soap?” I arch an eyebrow. “Not that scummy brick I spotted in your bathroom?”
He averts his eyes.
“Oh my god,” I mutter, and quickly scribble down:
Skin care routine. STAT!
Rhys is quiet for a moment. “So you think I’m attractive?”
“If I use my imagination...” It’s my turn to avert my eyes. I don’t want my observation to go to his head.
“Wouldn’t that solve it?” he asks. “If I take your advice, buy some new clothes, and a...” he swallows “... skin care routine? That’s a big change, right?”
“That’s a start,” I say. “If you wanted a surface-level makeover, you could do that yourself by watching some fashion YouTube tutorials for men. But that doesn’t even begin to scratch the surface of the real reason why you’re single. You’re a genuine asshole.”
Rhys opens his mouth to protest.
“Do you deny it?”
He grimaces. “I suppose not. It’s still hard to hear, though.”
Feeling sorry for him, I pat him on the shoulder. “The first step to change is to acknowledge your problem. You’re already farther than most incels I know.”
He arches his eyebrow skeptically. “I’m not an incel. I’ve had sex… once.”
I fight the urge to snort. “Really? When?”
He scratches the tip of his nose. “Six years, two months, and thirteen days ago.”
“Are you running some kind of prison tally?” I meant it as a joke; one look at his hangdog expression stops me in my tracks. “Oh no. You’re serious. You sad, celibate man.” I scribble ‘Charisma & Manners’ in my To-Do-List. “Maybe abstinence is the source of your unpleasantness.”
“It probably is,” Rhys answers dryly. “What’s the source of yours?”
I poke my head up from my master plan. “What do you mean? I’m not unpleasant.”
“Hm.” He picks the olives off his pizza and takes another bite.
“Did you forget that you quid pro quo-ed me into helping you score because of my qualifications?”
“What qualifications are those?”
“My vivacity.” I sit up straighter, an arrogant shimmy zipping through my shoulders. “Every one loves to be around me.”
“Because nobody knows who you really are.” He takes a long drag of water, challenging me over the rim of his glass. “A liar is not, by definition, a pleasant person.”
Don’t let him get to you. Don’t let him get to you.
“It’s a tough job market out there,” I say, opting to answer his mean little question head-on. “I lie to survive and once I’ve learned all about the ASSET, once I’m officially legit, I promise never to lie again.”
He snorts. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”
“You’ll see it.” I pick up my can of sparkling water and hold it up. “Here’s to learning how to fish.”
Rhys raises his glass, meeting my gaze in challenge. “Here’s to the beginning of a beautiful symbiotic relationship between two god awful parasites.”
I smile despite myself. “We really suck, don’t we?”
“At least we’re working on it,” he hesitates. “I suppose a work-in-progress is better than no progress at all.”
“Now you’re thinking like me.” And before he could retort or refute my statement, I clink my drink against his, sealing the deal.