14. The Wingman #2
“I’m not.” I grab my lukewarm latte and guzzle half the mug. “What happened to your crush on Michelle? Here I am, working my ass off trying to convince her to go on a second date with you, and you’re already straying.” I tsk in disgust. “Typical.”
His eyebrows leap in surprise. “Michelle? I’m still interested in Michelle.”
“But what about your unattached divorcées? Haven’t you heard about what happened at the original Coyote Flame?
What goes on during happy hour…? The shenanigans in the parking lot?
It’s practically become an urban legend.
” I snort, showing him what I thought about the joint’s reputation.
“Those menopausal women have no restraint.”
Rhys tips his head back, observing me in that clinical way that never fails to make me feel like a specimen. “Do you want to come?”
“Come with you? To Coyote Flame?” I laugh at the absurdity of the idea. “As what? Your chaperone?”
“As my Cyrano or my wingman,” Rhys says. “I don’t know how to talk to women. What if I offend them?”
“You seem to handle yourself pretty well with those two. What did you say to them, anyway?”
“Nothing special. All we talked about was my sweater for some reason,” he says.
“There you go. They’re not expecting much. Just be kind.”
Rhys drums his fingers on the table, his complexion white with fear. “What if the conversation veers away from knitwear? I don’t know what to talk about, or where to look, or what to do with my hands. You have to help me, Carina. You have to be my wingman.”
The idea of spending a Saturday night at a cougar bar whispering pickup lines to Rhys while he tries to score with cougars sounds like a new low in my life.
And yet, short of brushing up on the ASSET or catching up on Love Island with Angie, what else am I doing Saturday night?
My life revolves around my work (it takes a lot of work pretending to be an expert and keeping up facades, okay?).
Despite being conventionally pretty, stylish, and successful, my love life is dead.
You wouldn’t think I would be this unimaginably lonely, but I am.
Dates? What dates?
It’s been three years, and the last one, a Hinge date, wore too much cologne and needled me all night about my salary until I finally caved and revealed the number.
Apparently, I made much more than he did, and he spent all evening making snippy jokes about having me pick up the check since I could clearly afford it.
I did end up paying for the date, if only so I could end it.
Am I too picky?
When you’re a successful woman in your thirties, the pool of dateable men who aren’t emasculated by your success shrinks year over year until you’re left with the tiniest sample size.
It’s depressing to think about. At the same time, I don’t see why I should dull my shine in order to attract an insecure man.
I’d rather be alone than with some guy who expects me to clip my own wings just so he could feel good about himself.
If Rhys hadn’t had any action between the sheets in seven years, and I hadn’t been sufficiently romanced in three years... I might as well clean out the cobwebs from my vagina. Not that I’m expecting any action at a cougar bar, but it sure beats spending another night in my sweats.
“Alright,” I nod, resolute in my commitment to stick by his side. “I’ll come with you, but if it’s just us two, it’ll be weird. Your dates will think we’re together.”
“But we are together,” he says.
“Oh, to be so dense,” I shake my head, endeared by his naiveté. “They’ll think you’ve brought a date on a date. That’ll piss them off. How do you have the nerve? Or worse, they’ll think you’re into kinkier stuff than you’re ready for.”
“Such as?”
I arch an eyebrow. “Do I really have to spell it out for you? You’ve already tried to hook up with two experienced women. If you brought your own date, they’ll think you’re into … group activities. And they might be into it.”
“Ah…” Rhys nods, finally understanding. “Do I look like a ‘group activity’ kind of guy?”
“Absolutely not.” I laugh. “You’re definitely working it solo.”
Rhys snorts. At least he has a sense of humor about his sad sex life. “That is until I put on this sweater.”
I nearly choke on my drink. “You’re about to kiss that giant Jergens bottle goodbye by the time those cougars are done with you.”
Rhys scrubs a hand over his face, his smile widening.
I’m having a good time, basking in the red lantern glow, our coffee growing cold. I actually like Rhys now, at least in this singular moment, when we’re no longer sparring and finally on the same team.
This is probably the best date I’ve had in years. Too bad it had to be with Rhys.
“So you’re not coming?” Rhys asks, searching my face for an answer. When I hesitate, he backtracks, “It’s okay. I can do this alone. I can do this…” He says it like a mantra, trying to convince himself to be brave while his fingers claw his thigh.
“You won’t be alone. I’ll be there.”
He lifts his head. “But I thought you said it’ll be weird.”
“Only if we go together. But if we add another person, we’re just another friend group scoping out a new bar.” My lips curl into a smile. “And I know just the person to bring…”