Josh set me up with a partner at the Fidelity branch that manages his money. (The fact that Josh has enough money to “manage” still boggles my mind. I’m thrilled when I have enough left over at the end of the month to order a pizza.) This partner, Tony, wasn’t terrible to look at, but he spent the first twenty minutes talking about what he could and couldn’t eat from the menu, and the next twenty minutes mansplaining the rules of football to me and Elsa. Elsa didn’t seem to notice; according to Josh, she was reaching for his crotch under the table every few seconds. He said it was like batting away piranhas in the Amazon.
I probably would have suffered through it because my chicken parm was delicious, but Josh couldn’t take it and ran to the men’s room, with Elsa in close pursuit. Only his cry of “My stomach! I need a toilet!” kept her from following him in.
He texted me from the bathroom, a manic SOS, and five minutes later we’re in his car with the music cranked and the bliss of sheer, unadulterated relief coursing through our bloodstreams.
“That was the worst so far,” he tells me, turning right onto Alder. “I still feel her fist around my balls.”
“I’d apologize and wish that never happened, but then I wouldn’t have had the pleasure of hearing you use the phrase ‘fist around my balls.’ ”
He glares at me briefly.
“Don’t even say it’s not funny, Josh. It’s incredibly funny.”
I see him check the time on the dashboard, and follow his attention. It’s barely eight on a Friday night. I don’t feel like going back to my apartment, and I know that if Josh goes back to his he’ll just get in his sweats and watch TV. According to Emily, there has been a dramatic resurgence in Josh’s sweatpants-wearing since I moved out.
“I’m still hungry,” I tell him. Getting him to stay out won’t be easy, and if theatrics are what it takes, I’m game. I rub at my stomach and do my best to look emaciated. “I left my delicious dinner to help protect your virtue.”
It begins to drizzle outside, and Josh surprises me by turning down the music. I know him well enough to anticipate that this next part is a peace offering. For some crazy reason Josh will bend over backward to make me happy. “We could stay out for a bit.”
I smile in the dark car. “You’re reading my mind, Jiminnie.”
He glances at me, and then flicks his turn indicator. “You up for some drinks with your food?”
“When am I not?”
··········
I’ve only seen Josh tipsy on one occasion, at Emily’s house over a couple bottles of soju. He got pink and giggly and just a little bit loud (well, loud for Josh) before falling asleep against my shoulder and waking up like nothing ever happened. Outside of that he isn’t much of a drinker, and when he does drink, he’s adorably slow. He nurses a single gin and tonic while I manage to quaff down three, an entire hamburger, and a basket of chips and salsa.
He holds his glass, long fingers brushing away the drops of condensation. “Why are we so bad at this?”
“Speak for yourself.” I hold up my empty glass. “I’m awesome.”
“I mean the dating thing.” He runs his hand through the front of his hair. “People either have zero interest or want to bang in the restaurant.”
The bartender takes the empty basket and replaces it with a new one full of fresh chips. I tell myself I really don’t need any more, but who am I kidding. I reach for a handful, saying, “That sounds pretty normal to me. It’s nothing, or sex.”
He shakes his head, sipping from the drink that must be mostly melted ice by now. “I swear your dating experience is the oddest.”
I look over at him. He’s so ridiculously hot, it amazes me that all women don’t react to him the way Elsa did. But he’s also so innocent in some ways. “No, Josh, listen. Haven’t you ever just wanted to rip someone’s clothes off?”
“Of course.”
“So you agree, don’t you, that you’ve had an instant attraction to every person you ended up sleeping with?”
“Well, sure,” he concedes, “but most of the time I’m not trying to finger her under the table the first time we go to dinner.”
Heat flashes across my face and I clear my throat. The image that just burned a trail of fire through my brain—Josh reaching over, pressing his open mouth to my neck and sliding his hand down my pants—was . . . unexpected. “Maybe you’re just hard to resist.”
He gives a skeptical look down at his glass. I watch him carefully use his straw to take another sip. When he doesn’t reply I ask, “How many women have you been with?”
He pauses, staring at the ceiling as he counts. I watch as the bartender pours seven drinks in the time it takes Josh to finish tallying. I may have to readjust my mental image of his sex life. Go Josh.
After another moment of silence he turns to me and says, “Five.”
I drop my chip. “It took you four minutes to count to five? They must not have been very memorable.”
“I was just messing with you.” He picks up my chip and grins at me, showing me all of his perfect white teeth. “They were all pretty long term, though. You may have noticed I’m not great at the casual thing.” He takes another gulp, a bigger one this time, draining it with a long swallow. “Your turn.”
“Me?” I honestly have no idea how many guys I’ve been with, so I pull a lowball number out of the air. “Maybe twenty.”
His eyes go wide and he coughs as he swallows. “Twenty?”
“Actually probably more? Let’s say thirty.”
Josh shakes his head and laughs. “Wow, okay.”
This response is not an improvement.
“Don’t do that.” I point a finger at him. “Don’t act like I’ve crossed some magical threshold of appropriate numbers for a woman. If I was a dude and said that, you’d reply, ‘In high school, right?’ and then high-five me and call me brah.”
I drain my drink, too, and he watches, looking both amused and chastened.
“Fair enough.” He stares at me, eyes moving over my features as if gauging them somehow. “Sorry.” Lifting his hand, he offers a conciliatory high five. “Right on, brah.”
I laugh, smacking his hand, and he reaches for his glass, swirling the liquid inside. “What’s your longest relationship?”
Humming, I think back. “Six months, I guess?”
“Seriously?”
I turn and stare at him. “You need to stop being a judgmental ass. I already told you relationships are hard for me. I think most guys are sort of boring, and every guy I like ends up deciding I’m too wild or weird after a couple weeks. I can only keep what’s hidden below the tip of this crazy iceberg for so long.”
Something softens in his expression then, like he’s flipping a flash card from shocked to tender. “For the record, I’ve seen what’s below the tip and it’s pretty great. Odd, but great.” He narrows his eyes at my delighted expression. “I know there’s a ‘just the tip’ joke in there but I need another drink first.” He lifts his hand, waving the bartender over to bring us another round.