“Besides, who are you to judge? The girls you date wax themselves from head to toe. You probably have to tie their smooth, frictionless bodies down so they don’t slide off the bed during sex.”
I smirk. “I might tie them up, but not for that reason.”
She mimes a hearty puke session. “Gross. How did we get from my Tinder success all the way to you romancing plucked chickens and hairless cats?”
“You’re right, back to Sergio. Is he really your type?”
“Leave him alone and turn around. This is the part where I’m supposed to send him nudes, right?”
I lean forward and drop my foot from its spot on my knee. Now she’s standing between my legs. I’m nearly her height sitting down. Her phone is still in my hand and I scroll through a few of his photos. “Hmm, he’s short. A lot of short guys are like Chihuahuas—all bark, no bite.”
One delicate brow arches in challenge. “Oh, so you’re saying you’re all bite?”
Our conversation is veering into dangerous territory. I want to reach out and slide my hand around her thigh then drag it higher until it disappears beneath her shirt…trace the curve of her ass…
Instead, I sit back, putting much-needed space between us. “I’m just saying, any guy who takes selfies and waxes his eyebrows is going to be selfish in bed.”
“That’s fine, I’ve always felt I was more of a giver. Also, I don’t remember asking for advice.”
She looks down at her phone, and a deep, angry line forms between her brows when she realizes I messaged Sergio back for her.
SERGIO: Hey QT
SAMANTHA: How many children would you like to have? I’m thinking 10.
“Ian!”
“He addressed you with letters. I thought the prerequisite for Tinder hookups was to at least be moderately clever. He abbreviated a five-letter word.”
She turns back to the kitchen table. “I’m ending this conversation now.”
* * *
I don’t date much anymore. I can’t remember the last time I enjoyed spending time with a woman who wasn’t Sam. I guess it was my mom when I was back home for Christmas. Cool story.
Part of the reason why I’m alone is that I’m tired of trudging through the same fight. In past relationships, it was always the same ultimatum: girlfriend or Sam. I always chose Sam, and they always followed through on their threat to leave.
Maybe I should start using dating apps too.
It’s a few days later when I ask Sam to check over my Tinder profile while we’re alone in the copier room at school.
She groans in annoyance.
“You’re doing it all wrong. You’re supposed to say something witty, not just boring details about your life, and there are hotter pictures you could have chosen.”
She deletes the words that took me five seconds to type.
“What’s wrong with telling them I’m a chemistry teacher?”
“You’re supposed to say it in a witty way, like ‘I teach chemistry, let’s see if we have any between us.’”
“That’s really bad. Honestly, the worst.”
“And you didn’t even include a shirtless photo. What’s the point of all that gym time if you aren’t going to flaunt the results?”
“I don’t have any shirtless photos of myself.”
Who does?
She snaps her fingers like she’s got the perfect solution. “What about when we went to the beach last summer? There was that photo of us together on Facebook. My aunts gushed over you for days, and I unfortunately mean that in the literal sense. When I told them we were just friends, one of them asked me for your number.”
“Oh, perfect. Let’s skip Tinder and just hook me up with her then.”
“She’s 68.”
“First date at Luby’s? Senior discount?”
She shoves my phone back against my chest and shakes her head. “You know what? Now that I think about it, I don’t think you should do the dating app thing. It’ll be overwhelming for someone as pretty as you.”
“You use them,” I point out.
Her expression makes it clear she thinks I’m teasing her. I want to haul her up onto the copier and prove my point. Her ass would press against the glass, the bright light would scan past. I’d laminate the copies and hang them up in my shower.
“It’s different,” she says as she sighs, almost sounding sad.
“How?”
“I’m not everyone’s type. Your face is deemed universally good-looking.”
I sidestep her compliment.
“Did Sergio ever respond to you the other day?”
She scowls up at me. “Yeah, he told me we wouldn’t work out even after I tried to clear up the mess you made. Why are you smiling like that?”
“Oh, I’m just thinking of what I’m going to eat for lunch.”
After school and on weekends, I’m usually with Sam. We spend 99% of our time together. This seems odd to my parents and our other friends (the one or two that have stuck around), but it happened gradually. Weekly dinners became biweekly dinners, and so on. At this point, we’re codependent. I can’t remember the last time I had a meal for one—oh wait, yes I can: it was that time I bought myself Jimmy John’s on the way to Sam’s apartment a few months back.
“Shit, I should have brought you something,” I said right as she opened the door and glanced down.
“No, it’s fine. I have plenty of food here to eat.”
She joined me on the couch a few minutes later carrying a plate that contained the following: one carrot, a moldy piece of cheese, and half a slice of expired lunch meat. It was turkey, from the looks of the sad pale color.
“How’s your warm sub?” she asked, reaching for the carrot.
Obviously, I tore my sandwich down the middle and gave her half. Lesson learned.
We usually have a lot of grading to do on school nights: essays and edits for her, chemistry exams and lab reports for me. Tonight, though, I’ve talked her into going to the gym with me. She hates it so much. In the car on the way there, she works her way through an entire monologue about how it’s commendable that I care so much about my physical health and wellbeing, but she thinks it’s more important to focus on the mental and emotional health benefits of a sedentary lifestyle.