Mister O

“And it’s equally astonishing that you don’t realize Jason ‘let me friend you on Facebook’ ex-classmate likes you.”


She grabs her drink, shrugs, and knocks some back.

It’s then that I realize Harper’s bafflement over the opposite sex goes both ways. She doesn’t know how to act around guys who like her, and she has no idea when they’re into her either.

Selfishly, this is kind of an awesome discovery because it means I have carte blanche to continue thinking about her naked, beneath me, over me, coming for me, and she won’t have a clue. Considering I think about her naked an inordinate amount of time—like, for instance, two seconds ago my mind wandered to wondering what color her panties were—this is a very good thing.

Especially since the natural next step is to daydream about stripping her of the pale pink panties I’ve decided she’s wearing.

But I care about Harper, and I can tell this little lack of fluency in all things men is going to become a big problem for her at some point. Seeing as I’m all about helping the ladies, I give it to her straight. “First, yes, Jason is into you. Second, Simon is too. And I’m willing to bet my left hand that Simon has already texted you since the other day when you doused me in hot chocolate.”

That earns me a small, contrite smile. “Did you get it out of your shirt?”

“Haven’t done laundry yet. Ran out of detergent.”

“They have stores for that.”

“Yes. They do. But don’t think you can derail me.” I hold up my left hand. “And don’t let the fact that I offered my non-drawing hand as stakes make you think I’m not one hundred percent confident that Simon let’s-talk-about-the-party texted you. I’m really attached to both hands.”

“Fine,” she says, with a huff, like it costs her something. “He texted me earlier today.”

“I amaze myself. What did he say?”

She reaches into her purse, finds her phone, and shows the text to me.

Hey there. Hope you’re having a great week. Would love to get together and talk about the party. Coffee sometime?

“Case. Closed.”

“How does that prove anything?”

“Okay. Let me ask you something. Do you regularly need to get together with parents and talk about the parties you’re doing?”

“Not that often,” she says, answering quickly.

“Could you, for instance, handle the plans for little Hayden’s fifth birthday on the phone?”

“Sure.”

I slap a palm on the counter. “The guy wants to see you in person because he likes to see you.” I point to my eyes then to her. “He likes looking at you.”

“Ohhhhhhhh,” she says as my meaning registers. It's fascinating, like watching a video of one of those baby foals learning to stand for the first time. She brings her fingers to her forehead, and mimes an explosion. “Mind. Blown.”

Wait ’til she sees what other mystical insights into the male mind—if you can even call it that—I can perform. “Let’s put this to another test. Got Facebook on that phone?”

“Of course.”

“Open it up,” I say, making a rolling gesture with my hand.

She clicks on the blue icon. “Okay, what am I looking for?”

“New friend request. Jason from the bowling alley. I guarantee it’s there.”

She scrolls down the screen and blinks in surprise. “Can you do this with lottery numbers, too?”

I stab my finger at the phone, ignoring her cute little snark. “The dude wants to connect with you because . . .” I let my voice trail off and make sure she’s looking me in the eyes, as I finish, “he wants to connect with you.”

“Because I heard the next Powerball is going to be huge—”

I cut her off. “What did you say to Simon when you wrote back?”

She sighs, shakes her head, and screws up the corner of her mouth. She waits a moment before she speaks, like she’s trying to figure out what to say, maybe hunting for her next quip. But the words she picks are simple. “That’s the thing, Nick.”

This time there’s no sarcasm, no teasing, nothing unclear in her tone. It’s just earnest and nervous. “What’s the thing?” I ask gently.

“I don’t know what to say to him,” she says, with a one-shouldered shrug. “I can stick a pencil in my nose and make it appear to come out of the side of my head much easier than I can figure out what to write.”

“Wait. You can stick a pencil in your nose?”

She nods in excitement. “Want to see?”

I kind of do, in a sort of sick-fascination way. But not now. “Another time, unless it’s a Blackwing.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s only my favorite type of pencil in the entire world. But let’s focus on one thing at a time. Let me walk you through this. You say: Sure, that sounds great. How about Friday at five p.m.?”

She shudders. “Too hard.”