On the Rocks(51)

He nodded as he walked away, and I giggled as I shrugged my shoulders at Bobby. “You see? That’s what’s out there.”

“That’s the second time this summer that some guy hit on you right in front of me.”

“Maybe he knew he could take you. Or maybe we don’t give off that relationship vibe. We don’t really look like we are all that enamored with each other.”

“I repeat, guy code. You just don’t do that,” he said, seemingly genuinely confused as to why no one else adhered to his code of ethics.

“I think you’re the only one following this alleged guy code. You do realize that, right?”

“It’s very real, and it should be respected.”

“Are you jealous of a fifty-year-old mailman?”

He laughed. “I’m going to give you a little tip. Beware of guys who compare you to a celebrity . . . they’re either lying or have cataracts. In this case, I think we can lean toward cataracts, but that was even more ridiculous because he compared you to three. That guy has clearly licked too many stamps.”

“How do you know who Rachael Ray is, by the way?” I asked, curious as all of a sudden I remembered his reference to thirty-minute meals.

“I told you, I’m a Renaissance man.”

I sighed. “You know what’s the worst part about being hit on by a guy like that?”

“Imagining him naked?” Bobby suggested.

“Okay, until this second, no, and now I think I may go blind from that mental image.”

“Sorry. My bad. What’s the worst thing?”

I hesitated. I didn’t want to hear myself say it out loud, but the truth was, well, it was the truth. “Every time someone like that hits on me, someone much older, or just, you know, not to be snobby, but . . .”

“Not in your league?”

“Well, yeah.” I was grateful Bobby said it for me. If someone else says it, it’s a compliment. If you say it about yourself, you’re a narcissist with an entirely too high opinion of yourself, and I’d already noticed one too many similarities between my mother and me this summer.

“He doesn’t think you’re in his league–which, by the way, you’re not. You were a Hail Mary pass.”

“What’s that exactly?” I asked, not sure what religion had to do with anything.

“Guys do it all the time. They find a girl they expect will reject them and they figure, why not? Maybe just one time I catch a girl who is wasted, or so miserable she’d go home with a circus midget, or even better, a wasted, angry girl who wants to piss off her boyfriend or ex-boyfriend by going home with anything with a pulse. He realized that you weren’t any of those things, so he moved on. Don’t think for one second that that’s what you should be dating. It’s so far from the truth it’s a joke.”

Bobby reached out and patted my knee. Not in a creepy way, he didn’t squeeze it or anything, but a nice friendly pat. It felt normal. Comfortable. It was the most comfortable I had felt with a guy in a very long time. And I didn’t even like him. God, I was screwed up.

“Thanks, Bobby,” I said as I put my hand on his forearm. “I appreciate it. I know I give you a hard time, but you’re not so bad, truth be told.”

“Did that hurt you to admit?” he asked.

“A little bit,” I said with a smile.

“Thank you. You’re not too bad either. I’m sorry I was so forward with you when we met on Memorial Day. Grace mentioned that you were going through some stuff, and I just wanted you to have a good time. I’m not really good with the whole kid gloves thing. My heart was in the right place, though.”

“I know. And I’m glad you suggested we get out of the house tonight too. I need someone to push me to get out. It’s hard for me to force myself to do it.”

“Out where?”

“Out in the dating world. There are mass murderers, and rapists, and guys who will ask you to spend Saturday nights listening to them relive their high school years as they jam with their bands.”

“You have a problem with Wayne’s World?”

“Hey, I like Wayne’s World as much as the next girl, but I have no interest in dating either Wayne or Garth. Besides, it’s such a huge waste of time. Once you hit thirty, your odds of meeting someone through the normal course of life decreases by, like, fifty percent.”

“Where the hell did you get that statistic from?”

“My mother.”

“I’m beginning to understand you a little better. She sounds delusional.”

“Just because she’s evil doesn’t mean she’s wrong.”

“And you won’t do the whole Internet dating thing why exactly?”

“Because of my fear of murderers, rapists, and Wayne.”

“Right. So at the ripe old age of thirty-one you decided that you don’t want to date. What do you do with all of your free time then? I mean, if you’re not going out and being social, then what do you do all day? Sit on your ass and eat ice cream?”

“Grace told you?”

“She might have mentioned it.”

“Remind me to kill her.”

“Seriously. What have you been doing with your time in isolation?”