“But your rule of thumb is that all exes are awful?”
“That’s why they’re exes, right?”
“I’m not sure I agree. Yes, we joke about my number of douchey exes. But were they truly all jackwads? What if they’re only exes because they weren’t right at the time?”
He shakes his head, adamant, as the light changes and we cross the street walking down Madison. “That presupposes there is only one right person for everyone, and there is nothing sadder in the world than assuming there’s only one person for you.”
“Right,” I say with an exaggerated nod. “That’s the saddest thing in the whole world.”
He levels a chiding gaze at me. “Obviously, it’s not the saddest. I’m simply saying it’s damn sad when it comes to relationships.”
“And I’m simply saying that no matter how fun it is to refer to a parade of exes as Douchey Ex Number One, Two, and Three, perhaps none of them were the right person. And there’s nothing wrong with that. You have to kiss a lot of frogs. I think we can learn from every ex.” I snap my fingers. “I should write about that for that contest.”
“What contest?”
Grabbing the sheet of paper from my purse, I unfold it and show it to him as we walk. “The Dating Pool is hosting an essay contest. Lessons learned from the past. I could write about lessons learned from my exes.”
He smiles wryly, quickly scanning the page. “That’s so very you. You can find the positive in every negative experience.”
“Is that such a bad thing? To find the silver lining?” I tuck the paper back into my purse.
“No, it’s not a bad thing. It’s a Summer thing. And that does sound like a good idea for you to write about,” he concedes. “You’d probably make it hilarious.” He mimes typing a letter. “Dear Dating Pool, I learned how to cook an omelet from Timmy the Dickhead Cook, how to sing an aria from Rupert the Awful Opera Singer, and how to pilot a private jet from Kip the Cocky Playboy Captain I dated.”
Aghast, I swat him. “I never dated those men.”
“I know, but that’s the sort of thing you’d say. You can make a sweater out of any tangled skein of yarn. You’re an inherently positive person. That’s why you’re in the field you’re in.”
“And you? You’re a negative person?”
“I’m a realist,” he says. “And the realist in me says that if we were meant to get on so well with our exes, they wouldn’t become exes, and so if they are exes, they are crazy douches.” He raises his arm in the air, like an orator declaring victory. “Or frogs, and neither is terribly appealing. Both men and women can be douches or frogs.”
“That’s the difference between you and me. I played with frogs when I was a kid, and no, that’s not a euphemism.”
“You played with frogs?”
“Yes. And I put one in Logan’s bed too.”
His mouth twitches in a that’s too good grin. “Well done. How did he take it?”
“Screamed like a boy,” I say, proud of my frog fearlessness. “Also, it was a tiny frog. Like, maybe an inch big.”
“Things no one says about me,” Oliver whispers.
I shoot him the side-eye he deserves. “It’s a wonder any woman has lasted with you for any period of time.”
He wriggles his brows. “Oh, sweetheart, they last because I can last. All night long.”
“I take it back. You are a pig,” I say.
“Guilty as charged.”
As we stop at the next crosswalk, I reach into my purse and grab the bag of cookies. “All right, frog prince, this is my small way of saying thank you.”
He takes one. “Aww. This is a thanks for me letting you check out my package earlier?”
“You ass.”
“Ah, it’s for the time I let you check out my arse. I see,” he says, biting into the cookie.
“Double ass,” I say, but I’m laughing.
He chews and somehow looks sexy while eating, crumbs and all. “Admit it—I’m the sexiest of your ex-boyfriends.”
“You’re not a real ex,” I point out as we turn the corner then head into Central Park.
“I know. That’s what makes me the sexiest.”
“Cockiest maybe.”
“Like I said, the sexiest.” We wander along the mall, almost by instinct. He knows this promenade, with its towering elms and green canopy, is one of my favorite parts of the park, which is my favorite place in the city.
“More like most infuriating,” I say, as we slide back into our rhythm.
The rhythm that reminds me to squash any inappropriate tingles.
This rhythm is worth so much more than testing a theory would be.
We continue debating exes along the Literary Walk.
