From the stool at the kitchen counter, I review The Dating Pool contest rules one more time.
The theme is spot-on: letters to exes, with the proviso that you must have learned something from the past relationship. No slams, no digs, no skewering. Show us how you’re moving on.
Dating Pool, I’ve got this. I’ve so got this.
This is my jam. Learning. Takeaways. Putting a positive spin on nearly everything.
I can bang out this letter, easy peasy.
I have the perfect person to write about.
Grabbing my tablet, I flip it open.
Two hours later, my entry is polished and ready to go.
9OLIVER
One year ago
There are things a man just needs to know how to do by the time he goes out on his own.
How to tie a necktie, ideally without looking in the mirror. How to parallel park in one try. How to build a campfire—with and without matches. (Hint: magnifying glasses. Learn how to use them and you, too, can become Prometheus.)
And how to answer a Mayday call from your female best friend.
As it happened, Jason and I were hanging in his apartment one evening, working our way through the top ten skills any man must know.
I strummed a chord on his acoustic guitar, working my way through “Love Me Do,” the song we’d dubbed easiest to learn to play on a guitar. (On the list of things a modern man should know: how to play at least one song on the guitar.)
“Stop. Stop. It’s like a parrot mating with a trombone,” Jason said, clapping his hands over his ears.
Naturally, I played louder. “You’re just jealous that I’m ahead of you. I’ve tackled six items, and it’s your bloody list.”
An eye roll was his answer. “I would never be envious of someone who is total rubbish at item number four.”
“Building a campfire?” I scoffed. We’d worked on that skill last weekend while camping an hour outside of the city. “Please. I excelled. Yours was more like a bonfire, Smokey Bear. You do know the point isn’t to set the whole forest alight?”
“I made an elegant fire and cooked a burger on it. A burger you enjoyed,” he pointed out as he reached for the composition notebook with his list.
“Fine, I concede. The burger was tasty. But when you do your podcast on the top ten requisite skills, I want credit for excelling in outdoorsmanship, which is all the more impressive given my day job. Not only can I argue a case in court, but I can also survive a bear attack.” I eyed his notebook. “Check out item number seven. It’ll get any bloke past a grizzly or a black bear.”
He smacked the notebook on his thigh, looking skeptical. “I’m not questioning that you can research how to survive a bear attack, since you did it to put the item on here. Frankly, neither one of us ought to be putting that one to the test. Spoiler alert—the bear usually wins. But let’s go back to your other supposed skill.” His eyebrow rose to the ceiling. “‘Argue a case’? You’re a corporate attorney, inking contracts from your swank Park Avenue office. You’re hardly a prosecutor orating in court, Atticus.”
I stopped strumming, shooting him an oh no, you didn’t stare. “First, you enlist me as your comrade in tackling this Be a Man list for your podcast. Then you malign my ability to execute the tasks. Now you question my talent in the courtroom? I’m not sure you understand the meaning of the words help a fella out.”
“Fine, fine. You can fend off the next black bear we run into if-slash-when we answer the call of the wild,” he said, just as my phone bleated.
Jason peered at it on the coffee table, then arched a brow. “Ohhhhh. Summer’s calling. Your totally charming, utterly adorable bestie who you deny having a thing for,” he said in a high-pitched tone, sliding the phone across the coffee table like he’d caught me in the act of—what? Having a friend with breasts? “Go on. Answer it.”
“Men and women can be friends, as you well know.” I clicked answer on the call and said, “Oliver Harris, at your service.”
“Hi,” Summer said, biting out the word. Sensing the rage in that one little syllable, I sat up straighter. Then, like she was breathing fire, she scorched the next word from her mouth. “Drew.”
As she hissed, the light bulb went on in my brain, illuminating an image of someone she used to date. “Ah, Douchey Ex Number Three?”
“Yes. He took my work ideas and claimed they were his.”
“That is grounds for top prize in jackassery.”
“And obviously why I broke up with him, though he never saw it that way. He thought my ideas were just ‘part of the conversational fabric and, therefore, fair game, and why don’t we try to work this out, sweetie-pie lovey-bear?’”
“And the double pet names didn’t win you back? Such a shock.”
“I know, right?”
“Also, who the hell says ‘conversational fabric’ unless it’s an op-ed piece for a snooty newspaper?”
“Drew, that’s who. And guess what he did now?”
“Don’t keep me waiting. I’m on the edge of my seat.”
“He invited me to his wedding,” she said, irritation thick in her voice. Suddenly, I had one goal—erase that irritation as soon as possible.
“Say no,” I said, since that was the easiest method to wipe it away.
“I would, except . . . remember? We work together, and the whole department is going. There’s this office-vibe thing, and I look like the petulant jackass if I don’t attend. Like I’m holding a grudge.”
“‘Conversational fabric’ is reason enough to hold a grudge. It’s in the guidebook.”
