Chapter Eight
Justin
Libby puts a big check mark beside the first item on her list, apparently feeling confidant in her ability to make conversation that doesn’t tread into dangerous-for-a-first-date territory. She’s very cute with her lists and her questions, though I’m still having a hard time taking this completely seriously. Yes, I get that she hasn’t dated much since college, but Libby is a perfectly normal person. All she needs to do is be herself, and good things—and good dating relationships—should follow.
But if talking through this stuff with me is making her feel better, I can kill a few hours sipping tea and talking shop. There are worse ways to spend an afternoon than catching up with an old friend, who is also going to set you up with the sweetest pattern book ever.
I’m just glad the weirdness from last night is gone.
Today, Libby is once again dressed like Libby, in a combination of loose linen clothing that makes her resemble an oversize Raggedy Ann doll, and the vibe between us is back to being purely friendly.
Sure, maybe I noticed that the shirt she’s wearing beneath her dress is see through, and grants the focused man a tiny peek of cleavage when she bends over. And maybe I noticed how cute her feet are in the lacy socks she’s wearing, and the way her eyes flashed when she was guessing how many inches I’m packing, but overall things are back to normal and I seem to be helping.
I’m feeling pretty good about myself when she says, “Number two: Transitions,” and I frown, wondering if there’s something I’ve overlooked in my ten-plus years of dating.
“What kind of transitions?” I claim my mug from the tray.
“You know, like from the first date to the second date.” She glances down at her notepad as she adds, “Or from kissing to something more than kissing. That’s the part I’m most concerned about, honestly. It can be hard to move smoothly from the first part to…the other parts. You know? Sometimes?”
“Oh. Okay.” I nod, taking a drink of tea to stall for time.
Hard to get from the first part to the other parts? What is she even talking about? It’s like she’s asked me what to do after she exhales. You inhale. And then you exhale. And then you inhale again.
Seriously. It’s as natural as breathing, isn’t it?
“I mean, I know it doesn’t have to be awkward,” she says, clearly sensing my confusion. “With Brett things were fine, but I’d known him since ninth grade. We were friends for a long time before we were anything more and it just…” She shrugs as she wags her pen nervously back and forth. “It flowed, you know? But since then, every time I’m with someone and things start to get more intense it starts feeling forced and awkward and I end up making an excuse to leave.”
I shake my head, still mystified. “Maybe it’s the guys you’re going out with? Maybe they’re not the—”
“No, it’s me,” she breaks in, dropping her notepad and pen onto the coffee table before lifting her hands into the air. “Like, with my hands. I never know what to do with my hands. And then I get stressed out and I can’t figure out what to do with my arms, either. And before I know it, I’m tense and in my head and either lying there like a chunk of petrified wood while my date does his best to move things along without me, or jumping up and running for the door like a spazz.”
I nod again, a sick feeling spreading through my stomach.
Jesus. Poor Libby. I’m beginning to think maybe she does need sex education classes after all, and to suspect that my sweet friend is probably really, really bad in bed.
“Oh God.” Her forehead wrinkles. “You think I’m a freak, too.”
“No, I don’t. I’m just thinking.”
“Thinking that I’m a freak who is less fun in bed than a blow-up doll,” she says, her big brown eyes beginning to shine. “I mean, at least a blow-up doll doesn’t accidentally hit you in the face while she’s trying to take her shirt off and give you a nosebleed and a black eye. And yes, that really happened. In my defense, it was a really tight turtleneck and my palms were sweaty, but still. I’m a freak.”
I fight a smile. “You’re not a freak. You’re just overthinking things. You let a couple bad experiences throw you, and now you’re sabotaging yourself before you even get started. It’s like a couple years ago, when I missed a shot into a wide open net at the season opener. The goalie offered it to me on a silver platter and I fucked it up. And for the next two weeks, I couldn’t score a goal to save my life. Every time I went to shoot, for a split second I’d think about the shot I missed, and that was all it took to throw my game.”