Page 35 of Bad at Love
“Lucky for you, I don’t have an ex.”
“That’s not true. You said there was that Cody guy in college.”
“You remember?” She looks surprised.
I laugh. “Yeah I remember. Cody is the guy you tried to have sex with and kind of did but it hurt too much so you didn’t. You don’t forget a thing like that.”
She puts her face in her hands and shakes her head. She looks like a Californian version of Cousin It. “I can’t believe I told you that.”
“Friends tell each other things,” I say, wishing she wasn’t covering up her face so I could see her reaction. “Don’t they?”
She just grumbles again.
The Comedy Store is a legendary place in Hollywood where you can find a famous or at least completely legit performer every single night. Last night Dave Chapelle was playing, tonight we’ve got tickets to see Norm McDonald. Both of us are fans of his dry and odd humor, especially the movieDirty Workand basically any time he shows up in an Adam Sandler movie.
“I haven’t been here in years,” she says as we make our way to our table in the main room, the place already busy, excited murmurs filling the air.
“When did you come before? It wasn’t with me.” I have to admit, it bothers me that she’s actually been here before and with someone else. I wanted her first time to be with me.
The comedy club, I mean.
“It was a date,” she says, breaking into a wide grin. “Went horribly wrong as usual.”
“Why are you smiling then?”
“Well the comedian, he wasn’t famous or anything, but he was funny as hell,” she says. “Actually I think a comedy club is a great place for a first date. You can have dinner and drinks before the show and during the show you have something to laugh at if your date has turned into a total douchebag. Which mine did. Plus, you can see the type of humor your date has. If they don’t have the same kind of humor as you, you’re pretty much fucked. And he didn’t.”
She’s got a point there. Lucky for us and our fake date or whatever the hell this has morphed into, we’re always laughing at the exact same things.
We sit down at our table, close to the stage, and are soon ordering dinner and drinks. Marina wastes no time in getting down to business.
“Okay, so tell me what to do,” she says after she has a sip of her dirty martini.
“With what?”
“You know what. If this is our first date, what should I be doing to keep you interested.”
I stare at her for a moment, drawing a complete blank. She’s assuming I wouldn’t be interested in this moment, but of course I am. How could any man not be? She’s sitting close to me, close enough that I can smell her sweet honey scent, see the faint freckles across her nose. Her lips look soft and I know they’d be heaven to kiss. Her hair shines golden under these lights, lit up like an angel. Her blue eyes are even more vivid tonight, watching me with so much hope and worry that I’m absolutely captivated by her.
“I’m already interested,” I say, my voice coming out low and hoarse. “Any man would be.”
A flicker of something comes across her eyes, something bright and joyous. Then it’s gone. “You’re just saying that because you’re Laz. What if you didn’t know me at all. Remember, the game?”
I swallow and busy myself with a sip of beer. “Right. Well, it’s hard for me to be objectionable here because right now, you’re asking how to keep a guy interested and I’m looking at you, darling, and thinking any man who isn’t captivated by what I’m looking at, isn’t worth your time.”
She stares at me openly, as if she’s struggling to accept the compliment. Normally I don’t lay it on so thick…and normally I don’t think I’m leering at her either. Shit. I hope I’m not leering.
I look away, scanning the room, hoping that I wasn’t being too much right now. I normally flirt with Marina and she flirts back, but it’s always in this joking way and both of us know it comes from a friendly place, nothing more. But for some reason, tonight, everything we say to each other seems to carry more weight. Maybe it’s because we’re already evaluating what each of us are doing.
“Captivated,” she repeats softly. “Are you usually this charming with your dates?”
“I hope so,” I say, looking back at her. “Either that or you’re just easily charmed.” I clear my throat, pushing past the awkwardness that surely must be in my head. “So, back to things…”
“Back to things.” She has another sip of her martini, coughs a little. “This is some strong shit.”
“Which reminds me,” I tell her, “if you need to know how not to act on a date, rule number one would be to not get plastered.”
Her cheeks go tomato red.
