I even saw her scared this weekend. Angry, too.
But I’ve never seen her defeated.
“You have a higher calling,” I say. “A purpose. That’s cool.”
“What’s a purpose without results?”
“You got Kami and Nick together.”
“No, I didn’t. Kami would’ve found herself other dates on dating apps with or without me, and Nick would’ve come to his senses all on his own. He did come to his senses all on his own. I was a tool in her belt. I wasn’t the magic. She was the magic.”
“But she trusted you.”
“Above all things, Kami is kind, and she called me because she didn’t want my feelings to get hurt if I heard she was using a dating app. You don’t have to pretend I’m a good matchmaker. I’ve made a fine art out of failing for a long time, and I know it. I’m okay with who I am, because I keep trying, and that’s what’s important.”
I floor the gas pedal as I hit the on-ramp to I-56. Muffy is not okay with who she is, and she doesn’t even know it. “You said you’ve made a few matches lately.”
She makes a face. “A few isn’t anything to write home about.”
“Tell me three good things about yourself.”
“What?”
“Three good things. Tell me.”
“I’m no longer in Richmond, I’m not my mother, and I can burp the alphabet.”
“Seriously?”
“No. I accidentally burfed once at a dinner party my dad was hosting for his boss, and I’ve made an effort to never burp in public again. Private either.”
“Burfed?”
“Burped and barfed at the same time? Like when you think it’ll be a quiet burp that you can subtly stifle, but then stuff comes up? Like a shart in your mouth? Oh my god. This is exactly why I can’t get a date, isn’t it? You kissed me. We slept in the same bed together. We’ve had sex. We ghosted each other. And now I’m talking about sharts and burfs.”
“You have a name for it. That’s hot.”
“Don’t mock me.”
“I’m serious. I like made-up words.”
“When they’re about bodily functions?”
“I also like that you’re not afraid to speak your mind. You care enough about your friends to get physically and emotionally uncomfortable to be there for them. And you want to make the world a better place.”
She’s eyeballing me again. I can feel it, and it makes me want to squirm.
With good reason, given what comes out of her mouth next.
“Why don’t you ever want to get married?”
Is it hot in here? Or is it that she’s going right for the balls? “I grew up with four sisters. That’s enough for one lifetime.”
“Being married would be like living with your sisters again?”
I open my mouth to reply, and nothing comes out.
They talk about childbirth seems like a dumb thing to say. So does they nag me.
I love my sisters. They’re all great.
But I wouldn’t marry them.
Still, I’m not a big enough idiot to suggest that the four of them encompass every personality of every woman in the world.
Plus, West also nags me, so I know it’s not only a sister thing.
So why don’t I want to get married?
Heartbreak and expectations.
“Yes. That’s exactly it,” I finally say. “It’d be like sleeping with my sisters and listening to my sisters and fighting with my sisters.”
“So you’re afraid of commitment.”
“You know what it takes to be a low-ranked draft pick, spend years playing minor-league hockey and still never give up on that dream of making it to the top tier of the pros? Commitment. I’m not afraid of commitment. I’m here because of commitment.”
“Commitment to a job and commitment to a person are two very different things.”
“Not really.”
“Yes, they are. You know you can only play hockey for so many years, and then you’ll retire and find a new job. Maybe it’ll be sports-related. Maybe it won’t. Maybe you won’t find a job at all and you’ll go somewhere with a low cost of living and raise goats for fun. Your teammates will change over the years. Maybe your team will change too. The only thing that’ll stay steady is that you’ll strap on your pads, lace up your skates, grab your stick, and spend your days getting paid to chase a puck on the ice until your body gives out or you get tired of it. Commitment to a person, though—that’s a lifetime. And that person? They’ll love you back. They can hurt you, or they can complete you, and some days they might do both in a span of a few seconds. When that person’s sick, you’ll feel sick. When they get life-shattering news, you’ll feel it so deep in your gut you know it’ll never leave. When they’re happy, you’ll feel the sunshine and rainbows. The game? The game doesn’t love you. It won’t be there for you the next time you have to go to a funeral. It won’t throw you a surprise birthday party. It won’t know when you need a hug or someone to talk to, and it won’t keep you warm at night.”
“You don’t know the game the way I know the game.” I’m sweating. She’s right.
“Maybe not. But I know fear of commitment when I see it. And you, Tyler Jaeger, are afraid of commitment.”
“So?”
“So maybe don’t try to diagnose what’s wrong with me if you’re not willing to put the time in to figure out what’s wrong with you.”
“Why does not wanting commitment have to be wrong? I like myself fine the way I am.”
Yeah, that’s why we’re malfunctioning, idiot, my junk offers.
It doesn’t get to talk, because it’s still a raging stiff rod of someone pet me!
“Good,” Muffy says. “Because I like myself fine the way I am too, broken and incapable and everything.”
“You’re not broken.”
She eyeballs me and doesn’t answer.
“And I wasn’t embarrassed by you this morning,” I add. “I didn’t want you to feel uncomfortable. You sit here and talk about being broken and incapable, and I didn’t—fuck, Muffy, I feel like a failure next to Daisy sometimes, and I didn’t want you to feel judged or insignificant or unsuccessful when you are doing something pretty cool with your life.”
More crickets.
But my mouth won’t quit moving. “Were you still a virgin the night we hooked up?”
I know. Shut up, Jaeger. Throw it in reverse, back it up, swallow the words down, don’t let them come out of your mouth.
But I want to know.
I need to know.
“This isn’t Regency England, and I’m not the kind of girl who made chastity vows.”
“Your first time should be special no matter what.”
“Who died and made you king of sex rules?”
“Veda’s dad.”
“Oh my god.”
I choke on a laugh.
Yeah, that was probably inappropriate.
Muffy halfheartedly shoves my arm. “Veda’s dad was this stuffy academic guy who only ever wanted to talk about the importance of the grading system and how big of a dick parking ticket traffic cops were. Veda’s mom died when she was three, and she grew up with a dad who’d make eyebrows at every skinny woman who walked past him and then forbade Veda to be anything other than a woman who liked men, like he had the market on being attracted to women in the family. I saw him choke on a burrito once, and Veda told me she’d accidentally walked in on him getting busy with his secretary and saw him making that exact same face. If that’s who you want making the sex rules, then pull over and let me walk home.”