We ran a piece recently on avoiding weirdos, and while we didn’t warn against men who buy cutesy gifts—because that would be judgy—I can draw my own conclusions.
Best to avoid a guy who’d fight a woman for a cartoon dog on a lunch box.
At least, that’s how I try to blunt the brick of disappointment lodged in my chest as I head to the office.
2LOGAN
At an uber-trendy sandwich and bowl shop with my friends an hour later, I practically need to duck to avoid the rotten tomatoes and eggs they lob at me.
Metaphorical ones.
And I deserve it.
But hell, this dating shit is hard, and I am beyond rusty.
“Let me get this straight.” Across the booth, my buddy Oliver holds up his fork, pausing mid-bite to give me hell. “You were flirty with her over a Snoopy lunch box. She was giving you all kinds of eyes. She mentioned drinks. Drinks. And you still couldn’t seal the deal with a number.”
Why do I tell these assholes anything?
Oh, right.
Because they’re supposedly my friends. Also, because they asked why I have a lunch box with me. Quite the conversation starter, even for a single dad.
I flip him the bird as Fitz stretches an arm to pat me on the shoulder mock-sympathetically, his eyes on Oliver. “It’s sad, Ollie. When our friend has zero game,” he says, shaking his head. “But we have to take pity on him. We have to rise to the challenge and help this man discover what it takes to reel ’em in.”
I roll my eyes at Fitz. But mostly at myself. I was this close. Mojitos. She wanted fucking mojitos.
And I’m having a sandwich with my friends instead of mojitos with the flirty, witty woman.
Oliver takes another bite of his Santa-Fe-chicken-and-kale concoction, then frowns. “It’s devastating. To see a good mate in such a pathetic situation,” he says as my sister sweeps in, sliding into the seat next to him.
After she gives him a quick peck on the cheek, Summer adjusts her blonde ponytail, a curious glint in her eyes. “What did my twin brother do that was pathetic?”
I tap my chest, offended. “Why do you assume I’m the pathetic one?”
She bursts into a laugh from deep inside her. “Well, I doubt it was Fitz who was the pathetic one,” she says, stretching across the table to ruffle Fitz’s hair.
The hockey star preens, happily taking the compliment. “I’m never the pathetic one. And I have excellent game, on and off the ice.”
Summer wraps a hand around her fiancé’s arm then presses another kiss to his cheek. “And it can’t be my sexy Englishman, since his game is only with me.” She drops her voice, lowers it to a purr, and looks only at Oliver. “Speaking of your game, dear sexy fiancé, last night was amazing.”
I groan, dropping my head in my hand. “Don’t go there. Please, I beg of you, don’t go there. I have no issues with you guys being together, but I cannot hear about my sister’s sex life with my best friend.”
Summer scoffs. “Did I say we had sex? We had . . . cupcakes.”
I look up.
Oliver wriggles his brows. “We had amazing cupcakes.”
I slam my hands to my ears and sing, “La, la, la, la.”
My jackass friends laugh.
When I take my palms off my ears, I make a rolling gesture with my hand for us to move things along. “On to more important matters, like our paintball tournament this weekend.”
My twin sister shakes her head, undeterred. “Nope. I want to hear about your pathetic love life, or lack thereof.”
I take a bite of my sandwich, set it down, then level with them. These guys and my sister are my closest friends, so there’s no need to beat around the bush. “Look, my lack thereof is the most appropriate way to refer to my love life ever since my divorce from Stacey. Hell, ever since the last few years of my marriage. But that’s fine. Amelia’s my priority, and I don’t need to date. And Amelia has a half-day at school, so I need to pick her up soon, since this lucky bastard has her for the whole weekend. Case closed.”
Summer steeples her fingers together and stares at me with I’m waiting in her eyes. “Then you have fifteen minutes to tell me the pathetic story.”
Fitz jumps in. The man cuts to the chase in conversations like he speeds through opposing players on the NHL ice—just goes straight at it. “Logan went to buy Amelia a Snoopy lunch box, locked fingers on the handle with a babe, and tragically failed to secure her digits.”
I wince at his summary, but my frustration is self-directed. I should have finished the conversation with the sexy brunette with the pouty lips and rapid-fire banter. I was this close to asking for what I wanted most in our negotiations—a way to contact her. She’s the first woman I’ve felt that kind of crazy spark with since my divorce.
And I could use a crazy spark.
Oh hell, could I ever.
But c’est la vie.
I shrug. “What can I do? Just move on. I’m rustier than a bike that’s been in the garage for a decade.”
“But some things are like riding a bike,” Fitz says, miming gripping the handlebars.
“Yeah, pretty sure I remember how to do yada, yada, yada. I was married, not celibate.”
He arches a playful brow. “Did I say sex? I meant asking out someone you like.”
