Page 31 of Minted

YOU CAN’T WEAR A SUIT. WE DIDN’T EVEN BUY A SUIT.

She’s so cute. I’M NOT WEARING THIS FOR THE DATE. I WORE THIS TO WORK TODAY.

WHY WOULD I WANT A PHOTO OF WHAT YOU WORE TO WORK? WHAT’S WRONG WITH YOU? ISN’T THE DATE IN LESS THAN AN HOUR? WHY AREN’T YOU CHANGED?

I JUST GOT HOME, I text back. CALM DOWN. Then I plop down on the couch and let Lucky lick my face. Once she calms down a bit, I snap a selfie of me and Lucky and text that one too.

CUTE DOG, BUT GO GET DRESSED. NOW.

CUTE DOG? I text back. RUDE.

GUYS TEND TO GET UPSET WHEN I REFER TO THEM AS CUTE.

TRY ME.

OH, FOR THE LOVE.

YOU MISSPELLED CUTE.

YOU’RE VERY CUTE, BENTLEY.

And now I’m grinning like an idiot. So I go ahead and snap a photo of that and send it.

She thumbs-downs it and then says, GO. GET. DRESSED.

DO I HAVE TO SEND UPDATES OF THAT TOO? LIKE, THIS? I take off my jacket and undo my tie and send her a photo.

BENTLEY.

I’LL TAKE THAT AS A YES. I pull off my shirt and snap another photo. I’m just clicking send when her reply comes through.

DON’T MAKE ME BLOCK YOU.

I can’t quit smiling. Once my suit is off, I put my ‘regular guy clothes’ on, like a good boy, and then I can’t help myself. I snap a photo of the pile of clothing I tossed on my bed. . . And I send that.

Maybe her internet will be slow, and I’ll give her a heart attack before the image loads. But will she be irritated?

Or is there any chance she’s having as much fun as I am?

I feel a little guilty when I have that thought. She’s probably still recovering from her divorce. She’s a friend, and she’s doing me a huge favor, and I’m what? Repaying her by trying to flirt with her? She was upset at pretending that I’m her boyfriend.

Because she thinks I’m a player.

I mean, if I’m being honest, I guess she’s right. I’ve dated a long string of women, and I’ve never really connected with any of them. Isn’t that what a player is? Someone who’s such a loser that he never really clicks with any of the great women he meets? It just always felt like the girls I dated were more interested in posting social media photos of our food and our outings than they were in talking to me, in spending time with me, or in listening to anything I had to say.

Not Barbara, obviously, but I’ve always followed my dad’s strict rules there. No dating at work, and no dating among friends. It’s too messy. It’s kept my dad from ever having an affair, even though he’s been married to a harpy for over forty years. If it can work for him, it’s probably a good paradigm.

Only, it never felt so hard to avoid dating in my friend group before.

It’ll be fine again, I’m sure, once Barbara starts dating someone new.

That stupid Davis guy from the party comes to mind. He’s not terrible, I guess, but why does Barbara always date these lackluster guys? Are the decent guys too afraid to ask her out? The super-guys need to stop being weenies and just do it.

Barbara still hasn’t replied when it’s time to leave for my date. I really ought to be picking her up, I think, but Barbara arranged for me to meet Lila there.

At a taco stand.

This thing is going to crash and burn. I can feel it.

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