Page 29 of How to Date a Younger Man
“I didn’t know you had a questioning phase in college,” he teases. When I don’t laugh, he sobers up again. “Sorry, you said girlfriend. I couldn’t resist.”
“No, it’s fine. I just can’t believe this is what my life looks like right now.” I down the rest of my wine and pour another glass. If this gnawing, sinking feeling isn’t going away on its own, I’m ready to drown it out, at least for tonight.
“You mean you can’t believe that you’re a high-powered lawyer living in the home of her dreams?”
He keeps his voice light and sort of teasing, but I can tell he’s serious too. It’s a sweet gesture, but not enough at this point.
“The home of my dreams includes the love of my life and the pitter-patter of little feet. Without all that, this place is just an empty shell.”
I surprise myself with how depressing that sentence is. I can’t remember the last time I felt this low, or if I ever really have before. Part of me worries about what it says about me that I’m not even trying to hide my sadness—but then again, this is Griffin I’m talking to. I’m not sure I can hide anything from him anymore.
When he doesn’t respond for a few seconds, I check my screen to make sure the call hasn’t dropped. “Griff? You still there?”
“Yep, sorry, I was checking something. What are you doing tomorrow?”
Figures he’d change the subject. He’s twenty-seven. Not exactly an age where you’re ready to deal with your older friends’ existential dread.
“Oh, I don’t know, what does any single thirty-seven-year-old woman do on a Saturday? Clean the bathroom? Adopt a cat or two?”
“Good. Clear your schedule. I’ve got something to cheer you up.”
I chuckle at his misplaced optimism. “Look, that’s sweet of you, but really, I’m fine. I think a quiet weekend in will help turn things around.”
“I’ll pick you up at ten. Pack an overnight bag—and don’t forget a bathing suit.”
“Wait. What are you—” But before I can ask my question, the line goes dead.
Did he hang up on me? I stare at the blank screen for a moment, trying to process what the hell just happened—and to formulate an excuse to get out of whatever trip he has planned for tomorrow.
Then again . . . did he say something about bathing suits?
My mind wanders to the last time I caught a glimpse of him shirtless. Maybe a year ago now? Maybe longer. The image is burned into my memory, one I revisit more often than I’d like to admit.
All right, fine. I’ll give him a chance to cheer me up. Something tells me whatever Griffin has planned, I won’t want to miss it.
10
* * *
GRIFFIN
Compared to most people, yes, I am a very spontaneous person.
I’m usually the first to suggest skinny-dipping at a pool party. I’m not afraid to recommend some drunken truth or dare at a family reunion. True, there are certainly times when that impulsive decision-making bites me in the dick. Hard. And I’m afraid this might be one of those times.
“I’m so sorry about this weekend,” I tell Wren, injecting equal parts regret and self-reproach in my voice.
I don’t really do the regret thing, so it’s harder than I remember. I’m also not very good at self-deprecation.
But it’s always been easy lying to Wren, as shitty as that sounds. I’ve had to weasel my way out of more than one situation with the help of a little white lie, just to preserve something of myself every now and then. It’s hard having a needy friend hanging on your arm every time you leave the house.
“I feel like a dick,” I tell her.
“Your words, not mine,” she snaps back, obviously pissed. “Just like last time, and the time before. What’s going on with you?”
I’ve just told Wren that I can’t go camping with her tonight. It’s something we used to do in school, a whole group of us. And more often than not, Wren would get too drunk and find herself in my sleeping bag at the end of the night. Forgive me if I’d rather not spend the night curled up, sans blanket, on the dirt again.
“You know, ever since I split up with Cora, I’ve been scattered, and now a friend needs my help this weekend.”
That isn’t a lie. Being with Cora reminded me how much I want to be in a meaningful relationship. One with substance that’s just about getting my dick wet on the regular. I want to spoil a woman, claim someone as mine, work toward a future, and more than anything, I want to find long lasting love. No matter how much I liked Cora and enjoyed her company, I knew she wasn’t the one.
Now that I’m single again, I feel like an untethered buoy, bobbing around in the vast ocean of my empty sex life. I haven’t slept with anyone since the breakup. Frankly, I don’t even know if my dick is still down there. It’s not that I don’t have the urges . . . it’s just that the one person I want refuses to see me as more than a fuckboy with little to no future. Good times.
