Bet Me by Lila Monroe
For all the hopeless romantics - and the hopeful ones, too.
1
Lizzie
You know what they say about a guy’s hands. No, not that myth about dick size. I mean, that’s what they might say, but I can confirm with an almost scientific certainty that hands don’t lie. Guys with great hands—hands with fingers that can tease concertos out of a piano, or that have the light, sure touch necessary to make life-saving incisions with a scalpel—it’s hands like that that will make you come your brains out. I mean, some girls are into arms, or abs, or the way a guy’s happy trail leads down his stomach, but me? I’m all about the hands.
So there’s a part of me that’s both impressed and horrifyingly turned on as I watch Colin’s near-surgical approach to tearing the chicken meat off one Super Sizzling Sweet Sauce-slathered chicken wing after another.
Be careful what you wish for.
“Sure you don’t want any? It’s two-for-one,” Colin grins through a mouthful of chicken. “I’ve got a coupon and everything.”
“Thanks, I’m good,” I say weakly, watching those gorgeous, elegant hands smear barbecue sauce across his chin. So this is where a Sunday afternoon spent swiping right on cute dudes without bothering to read their profiles can land you come Monday evening.
I pick up my glass of warm chardonnay and try not to grimace. Not that he’d notice. I’m fighting to be heard in a packed sports bar just off of Times Square, where “the game” plays at an ear-splitting volume on an endless series of flat-screens, and the beer is served at such frigid temperatures that you almost forget that you’re drinking something that would taste like piss if it happened to be warm.
“What in the fuck was that?” Colin yells suddenly, his hands flying up in tandem with every other dude in the bar—solo dudes who clearly didn’t have the balls or the enterprising nature to combine Monday Night Football with a Tinder date.
“Sorry, sorry—I just can’t believe this ref,” he says, finally turning away from the screens. He shoots me a bashful smile, exposing a set of blindingly white teeth. “So what’s your name again?” He downs his beer in one gulp and lets out an almighty belch.
Guys these days are so charming that I can hardly stand it.
Colin grabs another chicken wing like his life depends on it before pulling the meat from the bone and shoving it in his mouth. Before I can answer, he keeps talking, his mouth full of dead bird.
“So tell me more about this . . . what? Art shit, you said?”
His brow crinkles, as though the task of recalling the few details I’ve ponied up about my life so far is about to give him a stroke.
“You’re really into that stuff, huh? Old movies? My mom can’t get enough of them. I don’t know what she sees in those old dudes, though. Cary Grant? I mean, that stuff’s from the dark ages. TV is where it’s at. Have you seen Ballers? Now that’s a great fucking show . . . Oh shit!” he yells out, jumping to his feet like he’s been electrocuted, and his hip knocks into the table upending his entire glass of beer . . . in my lap.
Talk about a cold shower. I grab a pile of napkins off the table and start dabbing at my dress. This is definitely my cue to hightail it the hell out of here before something even worse happens. And let’s be brutally honest: I’m pretty much lonely and horny enough that three more chardonnays might wind up with me being poked and prodded like another juicy wing by the end of the night.
“Great to meet you, Colin,” I say sweetly, my cheeks hurting from the fake smile plastered across my face. I push my chair back from the table, the peanut shells littering the bar floor crunching beneath my heels. Colin may not have a romantic bone in his impressively-toned body, but there is no way in hell that I’m even going to consider hooking up with a guy who dares to blaspheme Cary Grant in my presence.
After all, a girl has to have standards.
A look of confusion flits across his face. “Wait . . . you’re leaving? But the game’s not over yet!”
Oh, it’s definitely over. “Yeah, I’m sorry,” I say, “but I have to get up early for work tomorrow. Let me know how it ends?”
“Sure,” he says slowly. “And maybe we can do this again sometime?” He cocks his head to the side and gives me an earnest smile, as if he has no idea that I can’t wait to get the hell out of there. “I mean, this was fun, right?”
Oh sure. Like going to the dentist is fun. Like being trapped in a Turkish prison is fun . . .
I don’t answer, turn around, and keep walking until I’m out the door. Miraculously, my Uber arrives almost right away and soon I’m slumped in the backseat, watching the twinkling lights of the Brooklyn Bridge flash by outside the window as we cross over the water from Manhattan.
The worst part is, I’d give that date a six. I mean, compared to the disasters I’ve been on, he’s practically a knight in shining armor. Remembered my name? Check. All his own hair? Check. Didn’t paw me in the coat-check line? Give this guy a medal and call it true love.
God, I’ve been dating in this town way too long.
At least New York will always make me feel better, even after the worst of bad dates—and I’ve definitely had my share lately. I try not to think about my track record until I’m home and can pour myself another glass of wine from an open bottle in the fridge and sink down into the couch, pulling my red heels off and throwing them across the room. It’s not like they have far to go because my apartment is literally the size of a shoe box. A charming shoe box with exposed brick walls, windows overlooking Prospect Park, and a fire escape where I leave bowls of food for the neighbor’s white Persian kitty (that I am slowly in the process of catnapping).
Everyone has to have a hobby, right?
But hey, it could be a lot worse. At least I don’t have a roommate—or five.
Before I moved to Brooklyn from Toledo, Ohio, where I grew up, I pictured my first apartment as this charming, bohemian space where I’d store my Manolos in the oven a la Carrie Bradshaw and host glamorous parties like Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany’s.
But Manolos are hard to come by on an assistant curator’s salary, even at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. In fact, I’ve yet to have a single person over, much less an excuse to throw any kind of wild, Hepburn-esque soiree where people pass out face down on the floor while yelling “Timber!” Ever since the breakup with Todd, aka the man I thought was the love of my life, I’ve been too dejected and heartbroken to do much dating at all—until recently, that is.
And just look how that’s turning out.