Page 19 of Love Off the Rocks
“It’s complicated,” he sighs.
“She’s married?” I ask.
“No.”
“On the rebound?”
“No.”
“Celibate?”
He laughs. “No. Nothing like that. It’s something I did, and I can’t talk about it.”
“You’re married,” I deadpan.
“Shut up, dork.” He laughs, backhanding me in the biceps. “Something happened on our first date. Something terrible. And I don’t think I can get past it.”
“What did she do?” I lean in closer, eager to hear whatever dirt he’s dishing out. Maybe next I can get him to tell me about Brittni.
“It’s not something she did. It’s something I did. Rather, something that happened to me.”
“Oh no. What happened?” I reach out and squeeze his shoulder to reassuring him.
He looks down at his lap, shaking his head. “This is so embarrassing. I can’t believe I’m telling you this.”
It dawns on me what must have happened. Performance anxiety on the first date and he’s worried. I don’t want to press the issue. “It’s okay, we don’t have to talk about it.”
“I need to tell someone. Especially a girl. I need to know how bad it is from a female perspective.”
“I get it,” I tell him. “And it’s not that bad. It happens to all guys, totally normal.”
“Yeah. Dev said it happened to him when you guys were together, but not until further into your relationship.”
I think back to Dev and I and can’t recall a single time he could not perform. “Really? I don’t remember. But if he says it did, then it must have.”
Sam nods. “He said a few times.”
“A few times? Jeez, my memory must just be glossing over the bad times. Er, not bad. I don’t mean it’s bad. I just mean regrettable. No. Like . . . um . . . fuck. Sorry. I don’t remember it happening ever. But, hey, see how insignificant it is? I don’t even remember. Besides, I’m sure he made up for it after. Not that it’s something to make up for. It’s normal.” I cringe at my words but continue anyway. “And so can you.” I try to end on an up note, hoping I sound encouraging. “You just need another chance with her.”
“How do I do that exactly?” Sam asks.
“Well, I don’t know. Maybe try not to think about it, so it doesn’t happen again,” I suggest.
He looks at me, head cocked, brow furrowed.
“You know, and don’t drink beforehand. Or just have one beer. There’s a reason it’s called whiskey dick.”
Sam takes a pull from his beer, promptly spraying it into the fire in front of us. “What does that have to do with anything?” he yells.
“Everyone knows that if you drink too much, you go from”—I hold my index finger straight out—“to.” Then let it bend down.
He starts to laugh.
And laugh.
Pushing his chair back from the fire so he can bend over, head between his knees, to try to catch his breath, while still laughing.
I look around the fire pit. People are looking, but not really staring. I don’t get what’s so funny.
