“So how’s the glamorously sleazy world of ego-management these day?” I ask, after a couple of bites.
“Same as always,” Nate says, sipping loudly from his milkshake. “The egos get bigger, and then the money does, too. Your burger’s leaking.”
I look down to see the extra mayo I ordered seeping out of the bottom of the bun, some of it already on my jeans.
“Shit! Gimme more napkins!”
Nate quickly fishes around in the bags while I slam open his glove compartment. Eventually he hands them to me and I manage to stop the flow before spattering my jeans so much they look like a nineties fashion statement.
“Um…Nate?” I say slowly.
“Mm?” he mumbles, his mouth full.
“I think there’s a pair of women’s lingerie in your glovebox.”
Nate swallows, smiles, and leans over. He picks them out and throws them in the paper bag with the dirty napkins. I raise an eyebrow, and look back at the glovebox.
“What the fuck? Are you selling condoms as a side-business? Why are there so many in here?”
“Because I’m too young to be paying multiple child support.”
I laugh like it’s the funniest thing I’ve heard in awhile, which it is, but when I recover I just stare at him, open-mouthed, while he takes another gigantic bite of his quarter-pounder.
“Are you really getting that much action?” I ask, equal parts awed and repulsed.
Nate thinks as he chews, swallows slowly, and carries on thinking for a few more seconds.
“I get enough.”
“Wow. And you’re still nowhere near getting serious with anyone?” I’m suddenly more fascinated than disgusted. I can’t imagine playing the field forever like Nate does, but there’s something undeniably attractive about the idea of never having a broken heart again.
“I’m not getting thrown into jail for any of them soon, no.”
I punch him playfully.
“That’s awful.”
“Why is that awful?”
“It just is. I thought you’d grown out of all that.”
Nate looks at me with a furrowed brow, as if I just told him the most offensive joke he’s ever heard.
“‘Grown out of it’? What do you mean?”
“That whole ‘alpha-male, swinging-dick’ thing. Seducing all of those girls. ‘One-night stands.’” My voice trails off as I force myself to not-remember the one we had a few years ago. Never happened, Jessie. “Don’t you think it’s kind of…I dunno…asshole-ish?”
“No,” Nate says, and I can see how much difficulty he has in even understanding me. “Asshole-ish is your ex-boyfriend making you think you were his only girl when he was seeing someone else. Asshole-ish is telling a girl you love her when all you love is her body. Asshole-ish is lying to yourself about what you want from a woman because you haven’t got the balls to be true to your own instincts.”
Nate caps off his rant by tearing another bite out of his burger. I get what he’s saying, but I still feel like his logic is faulty. Has he really never been in love?
“Whoa. Calm down. I wasn’t trying to wind you up,” I soothe. “I’m just saying it’s weird that you won’t consider the possibility of ever having anything more meaningful.”
Nate glares at me, and I can feel his disappointment almost telepathically.
“How many ‘meaningful’ relationships have you had, Jessie? And how many of them ended up with someone – usually you – getting hurt? Is that what you mean when you say ‘meaningful’? Look, do you know how many women I’ve hurt in my life? Zero. Because I don’t promise them anything I don’t intend to give. I love women. I fucking worship them. Nothing on this planet is as beautiful, as mesmerizing, as capable of giving as much joy, as a woman. I want to celebrate every beautiful woman I meet. And the day I stop loving women, is the day I start looking for something ‘meaningful’ with them.”
I stare at Nate for a few seconds. He turns his head and looks at me, his face completely serious. That’s when I burst out laughing again.
“Ha! Are you fucking kidding me, dude?”
“Alright, alright,” he says, sorely, turning the key in the ignition.
“Are those the kinds of lines you use on them? Jesus Christ, Nate. I can’t believe that works.” I suck at my milkshake through the straw and suppress another giggle.
He frowns. “Okay. I get it. You’re not down with my methods. End of conversation, then.”
“You should write a book or something. ‘The Player’s Philosophy.’”
“You done? Because I’m ready to go now.”
Before I can answer, his phone rings. He pulls it out of his pocket and answers it.