In the Middle of Somewhere (Middle of Somewhere, #1)(28)

“Clarify, please.”

“Well, if it made me feel that shitty to think he didn’t want me when I’d only seen him, like, three times, then it’ll be that much worse when he loses interest a few weeks from now.”

“Oh, that’s logical,” she says. “So, the more you like someone, the stupider it is to actually date them because the more it might, hypothetically, hurt if the relationship ever ends.” She snorts. “Wow, you’re smart. That’s, like, Nobel Prize material. Daniel Mulligan’s theory of dating relativity.”

“Shut up,” I mutter.

“Oh, come on. What’s really going on?” she asks.

“Tomorrow,” I say. “I think I might have an actual date.”

“Aw, baby’s first date!” She pauses. “Does he know you have no idea how to go on a date?”

“I can go on a date,” I insist.

“You’ve never been on one,” she says.

“What about—”

“Getting picked up at the bar where you work and blown in an alley does not a date make, pumpkin,” she says sweetly.

“Fine,” I mutter.

“Tell!”

So, I start to tell her about what’s happened this week.

“Wait,” she interrupts me. “Is that ‘Shine On You Crazy Diamond’?”

“Yeah.”

“Put it on speaker so I can listen too,” she says. “I was just thinking I haven’t played this album in way too long.”

I put my crappy phone on speaker and turn up the stereo. Then I tell her about everything that’s happened with Rex as Wish You Were Here soars in the background.

“That’s awesome, babycakes,” she says. “So, are you going to finally—you know—uuuuggghhh,” she moans. “This song is so f*cking good it’s making me cry right now.”

“Ha-ha,” I say. “You totally wish I were there.”

“I do!” she wails. Ginger’s very sensitive, but it makes her uncomfortable. “And thinking of you maybe, actually, possibly going on a date with a nice guy… I can’t do that and listen to Pink Floyd at the same time without getting emotional. I’m only human.” She sings this last to the tune of the Human League song and I groan.

“Music social foul: no singing a song when another song is playing. Double music social foul: don’t ever f*cking sing anything while Pink Floyd is playing. What’s wrong with you?”

“I should be shot,” she says. “I should be dressed in a Dark Side of the Moon shirt and shot into space so I can never disrespect Pink Floyd again. And not even a concert T-shirt, but one of those ones they sell in head shops that white boys with dreads buy. But enough about me. What are you going to wear on your date?”

“I dunno. I mean, he’s already seen me in a suit and jeans and a T-shirt. Oh, and half-naked. Oh! And carrying a half-dead dog. So, I don’t think it really matters.”

“It matters because if you look like you made an effort to look nice then he’ll think you care about the date and if you don’t then he’ll think you think it’s no big deal.”

“Um. Is that true?”

“Yeah, totally true.”

“Huh. So, what do I wear, then? I don’t want to dress up. I’m going to his house to watch a movie.”

“Mmmm.” I can hear Ginger mentally flipping through my (very limited) wardrobe. “Wear the black jeans you got last year, your boots, and any shirt that doesn’t have writing on it.”

“Uh, okay, if you say so.”

“Ooh, no. Specification: wear the maroon button-down I gave you that that guy left at the shop after puking like a tiny wuss and running outside without it.”

“The sleeves are too short.”

“Cuff and roll, baby, cuff and roll. It’s hot. It draws attention to your forearms.”

“You like my forearms?”

“No, not yours in particular. I mean, they’re fine. Just, it’s a sexy body part.”

“I totally agree. I just didn’t know girls liked them too.”

“Oh, yes, Daniel. All girls like forearms. Every single one. No really, I’ve asked all of us and we all agree. We don’t even agree about whether or not the long arm of the law should be able to reach into our vaginas, but we agree about forearms.”

“Jesus f*cking Christ, Ginger, have you been fighting with the pro-lifers again? They’re gonna bomb your shop.”

“They make me want to get pregnant just so I can get an abortion and make a YouTube video of it to send to them.”

“All right, the maroon button-down and black jeans. Thanks. I’m going to ignore the thing about forearms, since I think you know what I meant.”

“Yeah, fine.”

“Hey, I think I accidentally kinda made a friend.”

“Oh yeah, someone you work with?”

“No. I stopped him from getting beat up. Little smartass skater kid. Babyqueer. He tried to make out with me.”

“Um, you didn’t, did you?”

“I didn’t make out with a kid, Ginger. What the f*ck?”

“Just checking.”

“Jesus, you think I’m a pervert.”