Lawn Boy(70)

Andrew craned his neck. “Um, Michael, in case you didn’t notice, that girl is flirting with you big-time.”

“Nah,” I said. “She just knows me.”

“No, Michael, she’s hitting on you. It’s obvious. She’s been looking over for the past five minutes. Go on, go talk to her.”

“Nah.”

“What are you waiting for? Seriously, you have to go.”

“You think?”

“Yes, I know. Just go,” he said with a regretful sigh, as though my departure was something he’d already prepared himself for.

Even as he said it, I caught Remy glancing my way. And here’s the thing: I wasn’t scared and I wasn’t intimidated. If anything, I felt guilty. On a different night, in different company, I probably would’ve felt the way I usually felt: that I ought to be interested in Remy, that I ought to be compelled, that if I had any guts, I’d be over there chatting her up. Because maybe she really was the one.

“Go on,” Andrew said. “Don’t blow it.”

“I don’t feel like it.”

“Michael,” he said gravely.

I stood up and obediently made my way to the bar, glancing back at Andrew, who encouraged me along further with a little hurry-up gesture.

“Hey,” said Remy. “Long time.”

“Hey. What’s up?” I said.

“Just got off work. Thank God.”

“Here?”

“Yeah. Sandy cut me loose—too slow. Nobody’s sitting here,” she said, indicating the empty stool next to her.

“Oh,” I said, then nodded toward Andrew.

“Ah. Well, how have you been? Haven’t heard from you. How’s your brother?”

“He’s good. He’s lost twenty pounds so far.”

“Wow. Good for him. You look good,” she said.

“Thanks,” I said, still insecure about my missing teeth. “You, too.”

She caught me glancing back at Andrew again.

“Who’s your friend?”

“That’s Andrew.”

“Ah,” she said. She waved at Andrew, who manufactured a smile and waved back.

I should have invited Remy to join us—I think that’s what she was waiting for. But I couldn’t do that to Andrew. It would’ve been awkward.

“How’s your writing?” she said.

“Meh,” I said. “It pretty much sucks.”

“Geez, that’s a glowing endorsement.”

“Yeah, well. It’s true. I’ve been rethinking the whole writer thing. In terms of my art, I’m more into my topiary these days. How about you? What’ve you been up to?”

“Working, mostly.” She glanced at the stool, wondering if I would ever sit down. “Buy you a drink?” she said.

“I’ve got one,” I said, nodding toward Andrew, sitting solo with two beers.

“Oh, right,” she said.

How can I explain it? It had nothing to do with Remy. Remy was fine. Remy was great. Probably not “the one” but certainly the closest thing I’d encountered so far. She was nice and funny and down to earth. The thing is, I guess I didn’t feel like trying anymore. I felt like being myself. Rather than having to perform, I just wanted to celebrate with Andrew, he of the clunky braces and the organic lettuce and the freakishly clean automobile. Andrew, who changed my thinking about Walmart, who opened my eyes to the inhumanity of puppy mills. Andrew, who chose to believe in me, despite all the evidence against me. I looked back at him, alone at the table, a little forlorn, smiling sadly to make the best of it.

“Well,” I said.

“You’d better get back to your friend,” said Remy.

“Great seeing you.”

“You, too,” she said, and I thought she sounded a little disappointed.

“Text me,” I said.

I realize it makes zero sense, but more than anything, I felt relieved to be walking away from Remy.

“Struck out, huh?” said Andrew, upon my return.

“Pretty much.”

“Well, at least you tried.”

“Let’s do some shots,” I said.

Andrew submitted to a J?gerbomb, quickly followed by another. After the second, I saw Remy set her half-empty drink down and walk out of the restaurant, not in the highest spirits. My guilt bloomed anew, and I was a little confused that I could have such an effect on anybody. Andrew must have misinterpreted my concern.

“Forget about her,” he said.

And just like that, I did. There would be plenty of time to feel guilty later. Andrew and I proceeded to eat like lions, and talked in our familiar way of books and oral hygiene, and ancient aliens, politics and recycling, and rotisserie chicken.

After Andrew squared the tab—eighty-six bucks with tip—we ambled aimlessly down Front Street bumping shoulders, then cut back across the public lot toward the water and down the boardwalk to American Legion Park. You could feel the very last vestiges of summer in the not-so-cold air, but mostly you could feel fall.

We got weightless on the swings for a while, until my fish and chips started turning somersaults and I thought it best to sit.

We parked our butts on a picnic table in the dusk and shot the shit.