I loved that, when I looked at him, I didn’t see the blinding McHotpants façade of perfection any more. I saw a frustratingly bossy, hilariously funny, irritatingly teasing, captivatingly intelligent, seriously sexy good guy.
“What’s that smile for?”
I blinked at him, shook my head just slightly to clear it, his voice pulling me from my musings. I realized that I’d been staring but, in my cozy comfortable uninhibited state, I didn’t feel particularly embarrassed. I responded, “I was just thinking about my first impressions of you and how you’re actually a real person.”
“As opposed to…?” He lifted his eyebrows.
“As opposed to a handsome robot.”
He dipped his chin and narrowed his eyes at me, “You think I’m handsome?”
“Come on. You know you’re handsome.” I rolled my eyes and poked him in his rib, behaving uncharacteristically touchy-feely.
“I’m just surprised that you do. When we went to Giavani’s I thought you were going to make me put a paper bag over my head.”
“What? Why? What are you talking about?” I sputtered, poking him again.
“When Viki asked if we were there together you-”
“That’s because she looked at me like I was the love child between Cerberus and a Cyclops when you said I was there with you.” I went to poke him a third time but he grabbed my wrist and laced his fingers through mine. Our hands settled on his knee.
He shrugged and glanced at our hands, frowning a little, “I suppose she was surprised.”
I asked my next question uncertain if I wanted an answer, “Because I’m not your type?”
His eyes abruptly lifted to mine, his features losing some of their earlier unguarded ease, “You could say that.”
I couldn’t help my own frown and the sinking feeling in my chest. In that moment I felt like a real girl. Like a girl who wants to hear that she is beautiful from the boy she likes. It felt adolescent and bizarrely painful and exasperating because I knew it was adolescent; “So, what is your type? Beautiful? Blonde hair? Model thin?”
His mouth hooked to the side, “That’s not what I meant.”
“Well… what did you mean?”
His expression hardened slightly, “Shelly, my sister, and I go to Giavani’s almost every Saturday. Viki isn’t used to seeing me with anyone else.”
“You mean a girlfriend? A date?”
“I don’t date-” his expression slipped into the mask of guarded detachment I’d grown somewhat used to over the last week. He then added, “-Haven’t dated.”
Wendell. He’s a Wendell.
Elizabeth’s words from that morning started parading through my head. I tried to cover the disappointed flop of my stomach falling to my feet with a brave smile and pushed him on the subject, asking another question I wasn’t sure I wanted the answer to, “So why don’t you date?”
“It’s not a big mystery. I haven’t needed to.” His tone was matter-of-fact.
“What does that mean? ‘Needed to’?” I felt like each time he spoke he was reluctantly giving me a puzzle piece; the finished object was looking more and more like a Wendell. Reluctantly, I was starting to accept that Elizabeth’s earlier assessment had been correct.
“You know what it means.” His voice was hesitant, as if he weren’t convinced of the statement.
I shook my head, watching him with wide eyes, “No. I really don’t. You’re going to have to spell it out for me.”
He seemed to consider me for a moment, his gaze hawkish and searching. He then asked, “What about you? Why’d you and Jon break up?”
“First I want to know what ‘I haven’t needed to’ means. Are you-” I searched for an explanation that was a Wendell alternate and could only come up with one thing, glad for my wine fueled audacity, “are you celibate?”
“No.” A rueful smile passed over his lips, it didn’t quite reach his eyes, “Fine. It means: I never needed to date someone in order to have a good time. I have-” he cleared his throat, scratched the back of his neck, and glanced to the side as though to avoid my gaze, “I had a few girls who I partied with from time to time but we weren’t exclusive.”
I blinked, absorbing this information. “You mean- you mean you have girls that you call to have sex with them? Slamps?”
Even under the intimately dim candlelight I could see that his neck and cheeks were red-tinged. He didn’t respond but he did sigh. He let go of my hand, began to stand, and grabbed my coat, holding it up to help me shrug it on. I eyeballed him, taking his silence as confirmation. Wordlessly he placed his hand on the small of my back and steered me toward the door.