With that disconcerting thought planted in my head, I’d done the mature thing and moved on to blue-collar guys—men nothing like good old Dad. Men who worked hard and played harder. Men more interested in literally climbing the ladder rather than just metaphorically. Solid men who didn’t wear their hearts on their sleeves or their causes on their T-shirts. They just humped along, year after year, working for the man, living paycheck to paycheck.
Milo, the electrician and my recent ex-boyfriend, had checked all the right boxes. He’d never dated a woman who “made real good money drawing pictures and shit.” I guess I’d been lonely enough to find his interest in me refreshing. He’d had some odd ideas about what constituted fun, and physically he was as reserved when we were naked as when we were clothed. So I’d truly been shocked to find out he’d gotten down and dirty in a public area equipped with a security camera. Heck, he’d never even left the lights on the few times we’d had sex.
That thought gave me a complex. Well, another one at any rate.
Although, watching him exhibit over-the-top PDA with the toothpick, I wondered if I’d mistakenly placed my expectations—he’s stable so he’ll stabilize me—on him when that hadn’t ever been any part of who he was. Heaven knew I wasn’t the uninhibited artist living a bohemian lifestyle that he’d envisioned. Had he gleaned that impression of me . . . from me? Sometimes in social situations my nervousness overtook my common sense and I’d blurt out ridiculous random things . . . and then have zero recollection of what I’d said.
So yeah, men got to deal with “social anxiety blackouts” as a benefit of dating me.
Milo must’ve sensed me staring at him. I didn’t duck fast enough before he saw me.
Please ignore me swilling cheap tequila as I lament the sad state of my life.
He seductively caressed the toothpick’s arm and murmured in her ear.
Her blond hair swung in a perfect arc as she turned her head to look at me.
I offered a smile and tiny wave—dismissive enough that I hoped it would keep them away from my little corner of doom.
No such luck. They started toward me.
Dammit. I should’ve worn Spanx. And combat boots. And boxing gloves.
I kept my smile in place as a string of lies formed in my head about why I was sitting alone in a dark corner.
Milo stopped a solid two feet away from me. “I thought it was you back here.”
“You caught me trying to have a quiet moment before my date arrives.” And there was a perfect example of random words spewing from my mouth.
“I wouldn’t think this was your kind of place,” Milo said.
Ooh, snap. In retrospect, it was shocking how little we knew each other.
The toothpick chirped out, “Hi. I’m Penelope,” as if I didn’t know exactly who she was.
Milo looked uncomfortable. “Well, I just wanted to come by and say—”
“Good-bye as you two crazy kids head out the door?” I supplied.
“Oh, we’re not leaving yet,” Penelope said. “This is our Tuesday tradition. Right, My-love?”
My-love instead of Milo? Eww. Didn’t this dim bulb realize it took a while before something became a tradition? But I played along. “Have you had this tradition long?”
When she said, “A little over three months,” I felt steam curling from my ears.
It’d been only two months since I’d told Milo’s cheating ass we were done.
Before I could ask Milo if his anal rash had cleared up, he was dragging Penelope away.
I scooted out of the booth and snagged my watered-down drink. As I maneuvered through the crowd, it didn’t escape my notice that several admiring looks were aimed my way, which buoyed my spirits. I spied an empty table close to the front door. Keeping my back to the room meant I got first dibs on any attractive single guys who walked in.
The bouncy waitress from the back section had followed me up front. “I was hoping you hadn’t disappeared since I let you run a tab.”
“I’m not wired to drink and dash.” I removed a credit card from my wallet and handed it over. “I’ll take another margarita.”
“You’ve got it.”
When you give off the vibe that you’re waiting for someone? Men always pick that time to hit on you.
Two guys, at least five years younger than me, approached. The one with the military buzz cut spoke first. “Hey. Weren’t you in the back room earlier with a redhead?”
“Yeah. Good memory.”
“Is she coming back?”
Ah. I saw where this was headed. Two of us; two of them. “No. She had a date.”
“That’s a shame she left you alone. But her loss is our gain, huh, Tommy?”